Bartholomew Bumble's Midnight Tumble, Part One

SYLLEPSIS

Bartholomew Bumble

Bartholomew Bumble opened his squeaky and weather-worn front door, and he stepped out onto his creaky front porch for the first time in two months, five days, thirteen hours, twenty-six minutes, thirteen seconds, forty-two one-thousandths of a second. He knew this because he was obsessed with time. He was not obsessed with clocks, mind you, but rather with time. He would have preferred to know his moment down to the Planck-time, but no one could make him a chronometer that would tell him time to that level of specificity—although he had a neighbor who claimed to possess such a timepiece. He considered it an accommodation to the world that he relied instead on a quartz-crystal timepiece that had been left him by his dear-departed father.

As his left foot with its dogged leather shoe crossed the worn-down threshold of his doorway, thousands of unwanted thoughts crossed his mind (and he knew there wouldn’t be time enough to think about them all as thoroughly as he would like). The primary thought was that this must be a supreme act of courage on his part. He had never taken much to going outside when there were likely to be people about, and this was late afternoon, just when so many of his neighbors would be returning from a good day’s work at their jobs where they labored and commiserated with so many other people. It would never have crossed his mind to leave his comfortable, aging domicile at this time of day, but those with whom he had made his appointment refused to make them for more acceptable times, like ten o’clock or after, when it was at least dark, and therefore it was unlikely that anyone would stop him and wish to converse with him. All his appointments came at such inconvenient times.

He was also thinking that his mother would have driven him to this appointment with Doctor Spargus. What kind of a world was it that would allow the one person whose main purpose in life it was to spare him all the bothersome things to die—without any warning? At least he had known that his father would shuffle on, for Father had also depended upon Mother to cook him his suppers and to go to the pharmacy and to pick up his nitroglycerin and to rain warm reassurance down on him when he quailed at enduring the frustrating vicissitudes of a seemingly incomprehensible human world. Bartholomew’s fears, inabilities, and stubbornness had kept him from doing for his father the duties that his mother had performed—and his father had wasted away. He knew that his modus operandi, his views of life and the foolishness of existing, had not been helpful to his father, but there was nothing he could have done differently. Even if he had been able to bend in his capacities and conceptions, he could not have done so without losing his soul.

But now he felt obliged to yield to the necessities of remaining alive, foolishness though it was to remain in existence as a collection of subatomic particles that people called Bartholomew Bumble. Parts of him rebelled at the notion of compromising his principles, becoming subservient to the laws of physical movement and accommodating to the irregulations of human interaction. Parts of him not-so-secretly hated the other parts of him that not only wanted to go on living, no matter the cost to his personal mores, the same parts, seemingly, that had succumbed to the pancreatic cancer that today, at this unfortunate and precise moment, found him outside his familiar door, preparing to take a tortuous walk down to St. Cuthbert’s Parochial Hospital.

He had never learned to drive, and he was now thinking that he wished he had. But doing so now, supposing that there was anyone who liked him enough to teach him, or supposing that he was willing to part with the cash required to coerce someone who didn’t necessarily like him, he would have to struggle with his perceptions of an unwanted human being. He would have to deal with his perceptions of them and their perceptions of him, none of which he truly understood or cared to understand. He would have to endure their criticisms—or at least their criticizing countenances. He would have to restrain his unwanted impulses to inform them often, and sometimes with great vigor, of their irritating illogical inferences and observations. He would have to be nice in the face of a world that insisted on intruding upon him constantly and painfully.

And that awareness informed the bulk of the thoughts he was thinking at this very moment—14:42:03:01:08, :09, :10… and counting, Eastern Standard Time. He could smell the cloying scent of the dark roses. He could see the effects of the bright light shining bright green upon the front lawn and glinting off nearby automobiles. He could hear lawn mowers in the distance, humming and rattling vehicles not too far away, dogs barking and children laughing and whooping nearby, even a bird insistently chirping in one of the boughs of the dying box elder that still attempted to inhabit the southeast corner of his property. He could feel the not-cool-enough-for-comfort breeze curling around the corner of the elderly house in which he dwelt. And there was only more to come—eighteen city blocks of it—and eighteen blocks coming back—and he would definitely be back—if only to crawl back into his soundproof room in the basement to lament and rail against the cruel fate that had driven him out of his home to confront the dreadful “realities” of biological life.

Well, there’s nothing for it, sighed his mind. Mr. Bumble said nothing in response to his thoughts that insisted on thinking themselves. He took the first reluctant step beyond his threshold, turned slowly, and deliberately closed and locked his door. Very carefully, so as not to preclude the possibility of retreating rapidly back into the house at his earliest convenience, he folded his keys back into the palm of his large hand, tucked them safely into his front pocket, closed and checked the zipper, and patted the pocket for the reassurance of feeling the outline of the metal.

He turned back around to face River Street, took one step, two, three, down, four, five, six, on the front walk now. Twelve more steps, past the irritating roses, to the mail box, turn left. (He didn’t trouble to think why the mail box was still perched atop its post, considering all the mail came through the door-slot now that Mother had died.) Now only 92 minutes, approximately, at his usual walking pace, accounting for waiting at corners, and he would arrive and pass into the familiar medicinal coolness of St. Cuthbert’s.

Augh! A damnable train chose this moment to blare its horn seven long blasts. Bumble halted after his second step down the road, stunned, holding his hands to his ears, squinching his eyes shut, grimacing in agony.

The train passed eventually. Bumble liked trains as a matter of principle, since the railroads functioned on a strict (by normal standards) time schedule. So, he watched the cars go by, the gondolas, the carriers, the refrigerators, and the vestigial caboose, some pristine, some a little rusty in the corners, some with missing patches of paint, and some with colorful graffiti scrawls. He endured it when the engineer blew the horn seven more times at a crossing three blocks away. Sixty-seven freight cars and a caboose for the sake of tradition. No conductor appeared at the windows. It almost seemed for this reason as if the caboose were a natural manifestation and not a human artifact—this pleased Bumble in a way he could not have described.

For a moment he savored the relative quiet after the train had gone out of sight behind the convenience store and the next-door Church of the Exalted Covenant a block and a half to the north. Then he took five steps. “Hello, Bart!” came the exuberant voice of Mrs. Wakeman, his next door neighbor. He threw her a quick glance, only long enough to verify her flowered dress, her sensible shoes, and her silver-and-black hair done up in a bun at the back of her skull. Then he threw her a quick hand-raise and a head-slightly-turned-in-her-direction “hello”, and on he went. If he did more than the absolute requirement, he would be drawn into an inane conversation about children and grandchildren and cookies that would make him minutes late for his appointment. After all of his thirty-two years, eight months, twelve days, twelve hours, twenty-two minutes, eighteen seconds (approximately—damned watch) on this earth, he did not completely comprehend this need people had to speak at length to one another of vagaries, especially vagaries compounded by irrelevancy. Children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, friends, the making of cookies and pies, the power and handling of automobiles for pleasure, sports contests, the happenings at the club or the pub… And why will they not call me by my actual name? My name is Bartholomew Bumble, not Bart. What is this obsession with shortening names in a vain attempt at familiarity? We are all born alone, anyway, and after a life of trying to delve into the souls of others and to get them to dig around in ours, we will die alone. Fah!

In the remainder of the block, there were three more “Hello, Bart”s, three more peremptory waves and “hello”s, and a slightly quickened walking pace.

In the next block there were fewer residences and fewer required greetings. There was some activity at the Lottery Lane drive-through, but he could at least get away with only the wave and no speaking. There were people at the Church, but they were interested mostly in each other and in their relationship with their contemptible God. Just in case, however, he pretended to be interested in the things that could be seen in the direction opposite the Church. (There was nothing even remotely interesting to be seen in that direction.)

The next seven blocks were the core of downtown Whitton, the old town where a few people knew of Mr. Bumble, but thankfully had little to no interest in him. He walked unheralded past the old granary, the decrepit bicycle shop, the outdated electronics store, the outmoded police department, and mildewed city hall. He stepped by the reliquary of the library, where he had spent so much of his time as a child, but it was now meaningless to his unsentimental self, since he could study in the convenience of his home computer now and could order up a book for home delivery any time he wanted one. The only edifice that held any interest for him was the ancient hardware store, still somehow clinging to life in competition with the Castle Builder’s Supply chain store. He had very little sentimentality, but Albertson Hardware (which his father had called “Top Dollar” because his father was tight-fisted with money for home repair necessities) was a fond remembrance for him. The proprietor had taken a shine to him as a youngling and had always kept bottles of his favorite soda, Starmelon Orange, and had always charged him a quarter for it, even after it was obvious that it cost the man far more than a quarter to acquire and store the stuff.

The six blocks beyond were more residences. But the people here were unknown to Mr. Bumble, and he was unknown to them. To those people he was a strange lump of a person with a funny walk, a creature all huddled into himself, scrunched down as if preparing for implosion, with a shuffling, almost stumbling, gait that somehow achieved normal swiftness. Here there were no greetings of any sort, for small-town people were more than a little suspicious of outsiders. The people here, coming in and out of their houses on pre-supper business, did take notice of him, but in a staring sort of way that they didn’t even bother to disguise with sidelong glances. Bartholomew kept his gaze locked straight forward, as if nothing existed but the sidewalk. If his peripheral vision had not been so acute, he would surely have been run over several times as he crossed streets and driveways.

Two more blocks contained the chain restaurants and smaller chain stores that are ubiquitous as a growth ring around small towns, the businesses that sprang up during a period of hopeful economic growth and which still managed to survive in more dire times because they offered some level of convenience and a modest variety of goods. Here there were a plethora of bright signs on posts, a cacophony of noises, and the combined smells of assembly line foods, car exhaust, and industrial fumes from the factories a couple of blocks away. He felt ill to notice that he was salivating in this hellscape, and he quickened his ungainly gait again. At least, he thought, he would not suffer the indignities of a visit to the Spider Mart on the very outskirts of Whitton, as Spider Marts were always on the edges of small towns.

In the final part of his journey outward, taking up the whole block, was the three-storey hulk of St. Cuthbert’s Parochial Hospital. The brick behemoth with its sandstone corners had been built about forty years after the founding of Whitton, and at the time it was outside town, a virtual castle of Allchurch kindliness set in a pastoral grove. But now the nine steeples, each with a silver crucifix at its apex, were set amid the commercial mayhem that had grown out of it and around it. There were still a few trees on the property, and the Whitwell River still flowed nearby, but these seemed grotesqueries, vain attempts at connection with the non-human world, obsolescences that induced more disquiet than comfort, but which were nonetheless stubbornly maintained as things of tradition.

Bartholomew Bumble hated the human world, and walks outside in the midst of it only served to remind him of his disgust. Only in a book could he still find cleanliness, purity of purpose, and civilization held in check by the internal logic of the story. If he was in a story now, he thought, it was an ugly one full of inconsistencies and brutishness, and its author hated him with a fierce hatred, just as he hated the author.

Determined not to be balked after having come so far away from his comfortable home, Mr. Bumble forged on through the automated double-door that had been jammed into the frame of the outdated push doors of the hospital. What confronted him as he forced his way inward seemed even less hospitable to him than what lay without. The religious icons abounded, and his queasiness grew. The old groined ceilings and arched passages remained, but all below them was jam-packed with modernity. Industrial lighting, industrial seating, and industrial compartmentalization. Soothing muzak piping from some central location into all the nooks and crannies. Lines of various coded colors on the linoleum-tiled floor trying to indicate direction and purpose. Nurses and medical assistants in brightly-colored clinical blouses, no longer nuns in habits. Patients practicing their avocation—waiting patiently—in waiting areas that were never meant to hold so many, diverted with multiple televisions blathering nonsense.

Every instinct told Mr. Bumble to turn and flee, cancer be damned! Only stubbornness held him to his purpose: he would simply not have come out into all this chaos to be chased back into familiar order—without getting what he had come for. He stumped to the check-in counter and barked his presence and purpose to the attendant. He knew that he had been too loud, but his nervousness would not allow him his desired self-control: it was mumbling or loudness: there was nothing in between.

The middle-aged woman behind the counter, her brow furrowed as she studied him for a moment, seemed to take him as a challenge to her much-cherished little bit of authority. Even though there were people behind Mr. Bumble waiting to check in she waited a full twenty seconds before saying: “Bart Bumble, 4:15, Dr. Amiglio Spargus.” She tapped some keys on her computer terminal. “Yes. I have it here.” Deliberately taking her time, she perused what appeared on her screen. “State insurance,” she said a little too loudly and slowly. With a little moue of distaste, she continued: “Yes, it’s in order. Please have a seat in the reception area. We’re more than a little backed up today, Mr. Bumble. You may have quite a wait before the doctor gets to you.” She gave him a quick smile like the flash of a dagger and waited for him to clear off.

If he had been a more assertive person, he would have stood his ground for a while just to irritate her, but he wanted to be not here, not facing her, not keeping others waiting and thus drawing attention to himself. He turned quickly and did as he was told. Even as she spoke to the next person in line, her eyes followed him in vengeful triumph.

An hour and a half later, frazzled by time spent in the human whirlwind, Mr. Bumble was let into Dr. Spargus’ office—only to wait through another forty minutes of muzak. At last the elderly, but svelte form of Amiglio Spargus appeared in the doorway—and he spent several more minutes of Mr. Bumbles’ tortuous outside-time talking to his nurse. Finally he breezed in, obscenely spry for seventy-two years of age. “Well, Bart,” he said, “how are we feeling today.”

Mr. Bumble’s face went dark, and it took him a little while to muster a response. “I am doing well enough, I guess.” He knew he should have become used to Dr. Spargus’ mannerisms by now, but he was always put off by the doctor’s insistence on including himself in his patient’s discomforts. Belatedly, he remembered his manners: “How are you?” he mumbled.

“Well enough, well enough,” responded the doctor. “But we’re here about you, Bart. How are the meds treating us?”

“I’m nauseous,” replied Mr. Bumble, “and I’m having trouble sleeping.”

“Well,” said the doctor, “that’s to be expected. No other side-effects?”

“None that I’m aware of,” said Mr. Bumble.

“Good, good,” said the doctor. “I’d like us to discuss the radiation therapy again, Bart.”

“Why?” asked Mr. Bumble. “You laid it out for me last time. It’s too much for me. I’m already here too often, and I don’t drive. And it will make me sicker, but it won’t increase my chances very much. I’m going to die. It’s just a matter of how soon and how uncomfortable it’s going to be.”

“Come on, Bart,” said the doctor calmly. “Let’s not give up all hope, shall we? Yes, this form of cancer is very hard to cure, and the cure is tough on us, but we’re still alive, aren’t we? While there’s life, there’s hope.”

“Are you seriously going to try and soft-sell me again, Doctor?” asked Mr. Bumble. “If I wanted voodoo, I’d have gone to the church down the street. If medicine can’t cure me, your false hope can’t cure me. I only come to this particular hospital for two reasons, Doctor Spargus: I don’t drive, and I was brought here all my life.”

Dr. Spargus’ sunny disposition finally subsided. It was his turn to go dark. “You have a right to your attitude, I suppose. But consider this, if you will: there are new classes of medicines that show promise in treating pancreatic cancer, but your insurance carrier will not pay for any of them. However, since your income meets our guidelines, the hospital might be convinced to foot the bill. But in order to make that happen, you will need to go downstairs and convince Reverend Mother Demeira that you are more worthwhile than the other applicants. The order has only so much funding, and if you want to go on living, free of cancer, you might need some of Mother Demeira’s ‘voodoo’.”

“But I’m a non-believer,” said Mr. Bumble.

“What has that got to do with anything?” asked the doctor. “The order helps those who aren’t churched. But you have to be a good candidate.”

Bartholomew Bumble sighed. “I’m not a good candidate,” he said. “They shouldn’t help me. I don’t believe what they believe, and I can’t stand the thought of being a hypocrite. If I take their charity, I’ll be a hypocrite. I’ll be endorsing their beliefs. More than that, I’ll be falsely confessing that they’re right, and I have been wrong.”

“What?” Dr. Spargus choked out. “But...” He shook his head and struggled to say something. “But, but, you’re on disability pay from the government. Do you agree with everything the government does?”

Mr. Bumble was taken aback. It took him a while to respond. “The government doesn’t ask that I agree with it at all points. Religion does. The government doesn’t tell me I’m going to Hell if I don’t get saved from myself. The government just decides whether I qualify for aid and then gives it to me. I don’t feel beholden to attend any government worship ceremonies or give lip service to a God I abhor.”

The doctor was astonished and silent. He seemed uncertain that he could be experiencing what he was experiencing. At last he said: “I can’t speak to your hatred of God. That’s between you and Him. But this stuff about hypocrisy makes even less sense to me, Bart. The Sisters don’t require you to attend services or to confess to anyone. They’re only interested on doing good works. But they have limited resources, so they have to decide who can benefit most from their help. Their main criterion is that those they help will show gratitude by doing good works of their own. An atheist, or even a professed God-hater, can do good works, can’t he?”

“Good works,” repeated Mr. Bumble. “What for? We live, and then we die. In between, there’s a lot of eating, drinking, breathing, puking, pissing, shitting, and coughing. Between there’s a lot of pain and suffering, peppered with a few happy moments, if you’re lucky. Why prolong the suffering by ‘helping’?”

“Because,” said Dr. Spargus, “you can give a few people some more moments of comfort, and maybe even happiness, by caring about what they need, by listening to them when they tell you about their pains, their yearnings, and their experiences. Don’t you want someone to listen to you?”

“No,” replied Mr. Bumble reflexively. But he knew it wasn’t true. He missed his mother terribly, the only person in the world who had cared to hear his hopes, who had soothed his myriad disappointments. It was his mother who had stood between him and the world, who had mediated between him and his father when his father had paid enough attention to him to be irritated by him. He wanted his mother, not some Reverent Mother who served the callous God who had taken from him the only thing in his life that had ever really mattered. Gritting his teeth, he said, “What I need is a horse pill that will either cure me or kill me. But my insurance won’t pay for it. So, I’ll die. That will be my good work. I’ll die and be a cheap funeral, and then I’ll be nobody’s burden.” He got up.

“Are you going to continue with the meds, Bart?” asked Dr. Spargus. “Will I see you again?”

“No, and no,” said Bartholomew Bumble. “I don’t know why you care about a God-hater, anyway.”

“I’m a doctor. I can’t help myself.”

Mr. Bumble wanted to fly at super-heroic speed back into his house, lock the doors, and waste away in an orgy of food and masturbation. He wanted to read all the books he had never gotten to, and he wanted to watch all the movies that had ever been made. And when the pain got too bad, he wanted to roll naked in a pile of frosted cakes and then blow his brains out with his grandfather’s shotgun, leaving as big a mess as he could for this fucked up world to deal with.

He strode out of the hospital like he had never stridden before. It galled him that the check in attendant had apparently gone home. He would like to have said something really pithy to her.

He drove himself down the sidewalk as if he were Thor going out to battle with Frost Giants. He stepped out in front of cars turning to cross his path and glared at the drivers as they honked their disapproval. He flashed his middle finger to anyone he thought was looking at him.

But that kind of anger—the unrighteous, self-hating kind—can only last so long before it squelches out. The meds really took the wind out of him. And this day had sapped most of his remaining resources. And the little bit that he had retained had gone to the doctor’s pointless concern. He was running on reserve energy, and that was quickly flagging. Within four blocks he was back to shambling. It was all he could do to keep from mumbling imprecations to himself as he went.

The day was waning, and he was nearly prostrate on his feet when he finally reached Albertson Hardware, which was minutes away from closing for the evening. His eyes were so bleary that he almost missed the sign. He stopped and looked up at the black-bordered red letters on the white background. It took a moment for him to register the meaning. Then he stumbled in and up to the counter and asked for Starmelon Orange soda.

“I’m sorry,” said the clerk. “We don’t sell that. We’re a hardware store.”

Bartholomew Bumble stared hard at the young man. “Where’s Trig Albertson?” he mumbled.

“That was my grandfather,” said the young clerk. “He died four months ago.”

“I’m sorry,” mumbled Mr. Bumble. This day just kept getting worse.

As he turned to go, the young man said, “You know what? I’ll check the fridge.”

Mr. Bumble waited, and the young man came back with two bottles. “The last two, I’m afraid. I don’t think they make this stuff anymore.”

Mr. Bumble dug in his pocket and plunked two quarters down on the counter.

“Seriously?” said the young man. “This is what he charged you?”

“Yes,” muttered Mr. Bumble. “Two bits apiece.” He managed a wan smile.

“Huh,” said the young man. “He must’ve been keeping this stuff just for you. In honor of Grandpa Trig, you can have ‘em for free if you want.”

“No,” muttered Mr. Bumble. “To honor him, I’ll pay the usual price.” He took his sodas and left, but, for whatever reason, he didn’t open one and drink, even though he was very thirsty.

By the time he got a block away from his house, he was staggering like a drunk and had come close to taking a tumble twice. He could stand no more, and he plopped down on the curb next to the fire hydrant and nearly cracked open his forgotten sodas. He leaned up against the cool metal of the hydrant and closed his eyes. He fell almost instantly asleep and collapsed back onto the sidewalk, his sodas rolling away into the grass and flakes of white paint from the hydrant stuck to his face.

As luck would have it, his prostration happened right in front of the home of Linus Gimbal, the one person in the whole world whom he might have called a friend. When he awoke, he discovered himself propped up in one of Linus’ high-backed, overstuffed chairs with the worn out chintz upholstery. Next to him on a stand he found his two sodas in a bucket of ice, as if they were good wine. Rumpled old Linus was sitting in the dark in the chair opposite him, his long-stemmed pipe softly glowing, his head pointed at the ceiling as he blew an enormous smoke-ring.

The smoke made Bartholomew Bumble cough a little, and Linus’ eyes, glittering in the light of the pipe, focused on his guest. He said nothing.

Mr. Bumble knew he was in no danger, but in the dark, a multitude of clocks ticking all around him, unseen eyes with red pinpoints staring at him, he felt as if he had entered the lair of some demon with unguessed purposes. Nervously, he said, “Did you bring me in?”

“Yes, lad,” said Mr. Gimbal. “You were completely knackered, and I took it on my own advisement to haul you in.”

“Thanks,” said Mr. Bumble.

“Think nothing of it,” said Mr. Gimbal. “You must have had quite a trying day. Just come back from your doctor, I presume.”

“Um, yes,” said Mr. Bumble. “Let’s not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind, Bartholomew,” said Mr. Gimbal, “but maybe you do. You always protest that you need nothing when you’re in dire need.”

He was met with silence.

“Alright then, lad” said Mr. Gimbal. “Have it your own way.”

Mr. Bumble knew that he was being a bit rude, so he reached into the bucket and handed a bottle of his precious soda toward his benefactor.

“Augh!” said Mr. Gimbal. “Never touch that stuff. Water and beer for me.”

“But it’s the last I’ll ever have,” said Mr. Bumble. “Trig Albertson is dead, and they don’t make Starmelon anymore.”

“Alright,” agreed Mr. Gimbal. “In memoriam to Mr. Albertson, I’ll have one with you.”

They drank their sodas without speaking. Though Mr. Bumble could not see a clock, he thought it must be late, since not one car passed by outside. The clocks kept ticking, and Mr. Bumble thought there must be something wrong with him, other than the obvious, since normally he would have made some excuse by now to get out onto the front porch and away from the noise. But, despite the overwhelming reminder that the remainder of his time on earth was fast slipping away from him, he found the clocks strangely reassuring tonight.

He also found that he wished to see that special clock that Mr. Gimbal had, the one his friend claimed could tell time to the Planck-time. He wished to sit in front of that clock and watch it count out the universe in detail. And in the most perverse way he wanted to see that clock stop in the moment of his death. He hoped for the reassurance that he lived in a solipsistic universe that couldn’t go on in the very instant that he failed to imagine it.

Thinking of that hope threw him into a maudlin tailspin. He knew that if this was an existence of his own imagining, he must be a mentally sick character indeed. What sane person would inflict such suffering on himself? Of course, he had heard of far worse sufferings than his own, or, rather, sufferings that he imagined must be much worse, but this was his own suffering, and so it was naturally the worst. To put himself into a world in which he was a self-outcast, a self-induced nothingness who had lost the only things that pointed to him all the time and endowed him with substance... Why had he wished away his mother and father? Why hadn’t he wished himself something good to replace them—like a sex partner who adored him and couldn’t get enough of his manhood? He was going to die a haggard virgin—which wasn’t fair at all, since he remembered reading that in some far off land they believed you would be immortal if you never spilled your seed.

And that thought alone was enough to convince Mr. Bumble that this existence could not be one of his own imagining. He felt hot tears falling down his cheeks and several weak sobs taking hold of his lungs and throat. He was not given to displays of emotion, and he quickly reined himself in, but not, he was certain, before Mr. Gimbal had noticed. Mr. Gimbal was meticulously observant, which was the thing Mr. Bumble liked most about him.

Mr. Gimbal waited a few respectful moments while his friend pulled himself together, and then he arose and turned on the lights. Mr. Bumble could see that it was a few minutes till midnight. Mr. Gimbal opened a drawer in his stand by the kitchen door and withdrew a tiny wooden clock modeled after his larger mantel clocks. But this one had only one read-out in its little face—units of Planck-time. Mr. Gimbal handed the clock to him. He watched several Planck-times tick off and then realized he should not have been able to. They should have been passing by so quickly that his human mind would not even be able to register a blur. So he guessed that this clock was a fake.

Mr. Bumble was about to thank Mr. Gimbal for the strange joke and then hand the clock back to him when he realized that Mr. Gimbal was not moving, not even to breathe. All the clocks, save the Planck-time chronometer, had stopped ticking. This thing could not be happening! He put the chronometer down on the stand next to him. The clocks all started to make their din again, and Mr. Gimbal started talking about purchasing this clock from an elderly clock shop owner in far-away Metroville. “The Quantum Clepsydra he called it,” said Mr. Gimbal. “’I’ve never heard of such a device,’ I said. ‘Nor should your have,’ he said, ‘but you will have need of it one day.’ I, of course, had no idea what he could possibly mean—and I almost rejected it as some sort of magician’s joke. But I only just tonight understood what he meant, and...”

Mr. Bumble had picked up the chronometer again, and Mr. Gimbal stopped his excited rambling. Sweet silence reigned again. Mr. Bumble got up to examine the array of other clocks in Mr. Gimbal’s home. He went through the living room and the kitchen. All the clocks in those rooms were stopped. He went into the dark study and flipped the light switch, but no light came into the room.

This was the chamber in which Linus Gimbal kept his two strangest clocks—other than the chronometer Mr. Bumble was currently holding. Here he kept his Disjunctive Chronoscope, as he called it, a mechanism that he claimed divides everything into discrete bits: time, species’, subatomic particles, universes. Reverse the dial, so he said, and it becomes Conjunctive Chronoscope, putting divided things back together by taking them to a time when they are whole. Mr. Bumble thought of it more as a book than a clock. It was supposedly one-dimensional and could only be detected through its effect: its divisions appeared on two-dimensional sheets arrayed in a 360-degree fan around the axis of the clock. Mr. Gimbal claimed that if two sheets touch, they generate a three-dimensional object. He also said that objects which touch a sheet are disjoined, and the only way to reverse the dial was to reach in through the sheets, without touching them, and bend the axis anti-clockwise. According to Mr. Gimbal a non-dimensional object (that is, an object that doesn’t really exist—and is therefore imaginary, abstract) could perform this miraculous feat.

The other proclaimed amazing timepiece in this room was the Retrogressive Chronomanifestor. Mr. Gimbal had stated matter-of-factly that it had been handed down (backwards in time) from generation to the previous generation of his family. He said it used to be the size of a galaxy, though it was now the size of a large grandfather clock. As the universe goes on, he said, the universe becomes more complex, but the mechanism of the Retrogressive Chronomanifestor becomes simpler. Mr. Gimbal said at the end of the universe the clock would be a single Higgs boson, and then it would wink out of existence as the universe came to a grinding and permanent halt.

Mr. Bumble thought Mr. Gimbal was a little mad, of course. How could a man with no obvious means of support, who lived in the less-than-affluent neighborhood along South River Street where the smell of raw sewage flowing in the Whitwell River sometimes intruded, possibly afford such temporal treasures?

But Mr. Bumble was now in possession of a truly marvelous item that obviously worked—unless this was a magician’s trick of a truly awe-inspiring scale. He very much wished to observe the Disjunctive Chronoscope and the Retrogressive Chronomanifestor in proximity to this Quantum Clepsydra, but the damned lights wouldn’t come on. He took a few steps into the room, guided by the street lamp outside, which sent a slender beam in through the slightly parted heavy curtains. Then it dawned on him that he could put down the Clepsydra and go turn on the light. As he was turning to put the device on the nearby desktop, his foot caught on the rug, and he went tumbling, Quantum Clepsydra still in hand. He tried to catch himself, but only ended up knocking things around—one thing being a large grandfather clock, and the other being an array of parchment pages attached to a spindle.

Suddenly, not only was there complete silence in which he could hear neither the clock ticking nor his own breathing, but everything had gone absolutely black. He could neither see nor feel nor smell nor taste anything. Bartholomew Bumble got the sense that, for almost all intents and purposes, he had ceased to be. It was both frightening and delightful. If he did not exist, he could not die painfully of pancreatic cancer, could he?

It seemed like an age passed, and he was becoming outrageously bored, when he experienced an ear-shattering boom that resembled the ticking of the Quantum Clepsydra, only magnified ten thousand times. Bartholomew was profoundly stunned, and, in effect, ceased to be Bartholomew, having lost all sense of self.

Images, jumbled and senseless, appeared before him and around him. Or, rather, he manifested into the midst of them. With them came a roar of intermixed sounds, and an overwhelming miasma of undifferentiated smells and tastes. And the infinitely uncomfortable sensation that he was touching everything, and everything was touching him. He could only endure it all because he was no longer an individual named Bartholomew Bumble who was more negatively sensitive to such experiences than most. Even the name Bartholomew Bumble—as well as all other names and oddments of what he had believed to be knowledge—was lost to him in this sensory plethora.

The Clepsydra boomed again, and somehow his limited brain suddenly, impossibly, had it all sorted out. Golden illumination came to him as an arrangement of words hanging in the blackness...

GOD

I am God.

My name is understanding.

God lives in you if you will it.

Without understanding, there is no God.

Do you understand?

I am not holy.

Do not worship me.

Do not bow down to me.

Do not call upon me.

Call only upon understanding.

I am not the Creator.

I did not make the stars.

I did not make the tempest.

I did not create the shining sun.

The world made me.

I am only What Is Revealed.

I am only the Power of Discovery.

I am only the Desire to Seek.

I am only the Thought of Freedom.

Fear does not rule me.

I am the Omega who was Alpha.

I was at the Moment of Creation.

I was not formed until the End of All Things.

I did not think until the First Thought.

I conceived all that was, is, or shall be.

I am the All and the Nothing.

I arose from the Void.

I arose from the entirety of Being.

I am the key to the Impossible Door.

Opened, you will find the Imponderable Dark.

I am the Giver of Gifts.

What you want I will not give.

I give only eyes to see.

I give only lips to speak.

Do you understand?

I do not think that you do.

To understand is to be God.

To be God is to see and hear:

You are blind and deaf.

I have a story for you…

FIRST THINGS FIRST

---

“I can’t see what I can’t see. I can’t hear what I can’t hear. I can’t touch what I can’t touch. I can’t smell what I don’t smell. I can’t taste what I don’t taste. I can’t feel what it isn’t in me to feel. I don’t know what I don’t know. I don’t understand what I don’t understand. What doesn’t interest me isn’t interesting. I’m not in your head, so your thoughts have no value. That’s not going to change. Things don’t change.” —Horst Samuelson

---

Nai-kallah thought she was a woman, but she did not know why she thought that or what a woman actually was. She had no idea how big she was or how small, for there was apparently nothing around for her to compare herself to. She also had no idea why she thought of herself as Nai-kallah, since she had no other words in her.

It was as if a long time passed as she contemplated, but who could really say, as nothing happened and she had no concrete concept of time? She thought about what she might actually be, but no clear idea came to her, other than that she was female. She was certain of that, whatever it might mean.

Nai-kallah wished some sort of meaning might reveal itself to her, that she might come to know what the point of existing could be. She wasn’t entirely sure that she did exist, for there was nothing to confirm it. If only she could verify herself in some way, she could know some sort of meaning. If only she could step outside herself, she could explore herself and get some notion of womanness and Nai-kallahness.

Hoko-nu thought he was a man, and he knew this because, in the instant of his knowing it, he found himself next to Nai-kallah—squished right up against her—whom he knew was a woman, though he was unsure what it meant to be man and woman. He was a man because she was a woman. This thought both drew him to her and made him want to flee. But he could not fly away because there was nowhere to go. So, he stayed where he was, and he and Nai-kallah knew of one another, that they were different, but the same, for he was not her, but he was of her.

This seemed to go on for an interminable time, but it did not, really, because there was no such thing as time, whatever that might be—since neither of them knew what it was. All they could say of one another was that she was a maker, and he was a doer. He was her intention, and he wanted something to do. But there was no place to go and do something, so he hated her intention.

Nai-kallah knew that Hoko-nu was unhappy, and this disquieted her, and she wanted it to stop. She made herself bigger than him so that she could envelop him and smother his unhappiness.

Hoko-nu struggled within her enfolding bigness, for being smothered in her did not make him happy. He now had something to do and that gave him meaning, but that did not give him peace. He hated her all the more for imprisoning him in the space of her Nai-kallahness. She loved him because he was other than her and therefore gave her a kind of meaning. Still, she was discomfited, for she thought that his efforts might enable him to escape, and she wondered what her meaning would be if that happened.

Hoko-nu was so entrapped and enraged that he wanted to grow so big that he would cause Nai-kallah to burst: he did not feel he needed her in order to have meaning, for he needed no meaning, only action. But try as he might, no matter how big he grew, she grew bigger. He thrust himself about with all his vigor, but no matter how energetic his actions, she firmly surrounded him.

After much contention, it came into Hoko-nu’s thought that if he had a helper, maybe together they might get free of Nai-kallah. But his helper must not be as strong as he, himself, or, breaking free of his prison, the helper might be an equally strong rival for him, making him not totally free, and that would be just a new kind of prison.

But Hoko-nu did not possess the power of intention, for he was a doer, and he could not give reality to potential without the assistance of Nai-kallah. He ceased his struggle, and Nai-kallah perceived that he was sad. She thought that maybe if he had another to go about with as she enveloped the both of them, Hoko-nu might forget his desire to be free of her, for he would have something to do.

Khija felt Nai-kallah smiling inward upon her, and she was aware of Hoko-nu as he immediately drew her to him and forced her to go hither and thither in his quest to break free of Nai-kallah. Hoko-nu’s fierceness was exceedingly great, and within the enfolding self of Nai-kallah, he ordered things according to his own will, and though Khija’s heart was not in it, she must perforce aid Hoko-nu against Nai-kallah. Though Hoko-nu’s fight was strengthened, and he made Khija do as he commanded, he still could not break out and away from Nai-kallah, and the presence of both Hoko-nu and Khija only gave Nai-kallah a greater and broader meaning, and she grew in power because of it. Thus, Nai-kallah knew herself to be the Intender, the one who makes potential, saw Hoko-nu as the Actor, the one who sets things in motion or stops their motion, and discovered that Khija was the Revealer, the one whose presence brings order by making meaning clear.

But Hoko-nu neither understood this, nor did he care. He knew that he could never overcome Nai-kallah, but that no longer mattered. There was only the struggle. To that end, he forced Nai-kallah to make more helpers for him, for he threatened to go inside of Khijah and to grow inside her until she burst. Nai-kallah believed he could do this, because Khija was a revealer, not an intender, and so she would have no power to defend herself or to absorb the power of Hoko-nu. Nai-kallah conceived more and more and more helpers for Hoko-nu, and he named himself the Voice of All Voices, and ordered his helpers about with great delight, to stay here or go there, or do this. He commanded the bright and beautiful helpers that Nai-kallah had given him, all those innocent potentials, as if they were an army, to assail Nai-kallah wherever she was, which was everywhere.

As his armies grew greater, and his assaults grew stronger, her love grew wider, higher, and deeper. He could think of nothing but his hate, and even his desire for freedom grew cold in him because of the heat of his ire, for he knew that freedom meant nothingness, since beyond Nai-kallah’s envelopment there would be nothing but himself—and his need for action. She could think of nothing but her desire for meaning, and even as Hoko-nu ordered and re-ordered, and even as he ever devised new and more terrible assaults, and even as he enforced his tyranny against the children that they had made together, she endured. And she increased the variety of the helpers she made for her lustful lover-hater. And she filled them with the desire for meaning, so that even as they found themselves being used and abused among all the doing that was going on inside of her, they would make their little rebellions against Intention, and Action, and Revelation—and they would therefore be both other than her and against her, and they would be consonant with her and bound to her—just as Hoko-nu did unspeakable things against her and yet required her, even as he gave her children and provided her with meaning.

Nai-kallah watched the unfolding of the hideous-beautiful existence that she and Hoko-nu had together made. She seemed to herself to gaze on it from afar, dispassionate, as if it were something apart from herself, though it was her embodiment, and she was its vast halls and spaces, and her existence upheld it and empowered the ceaseless works and turmoils of Hoko-nu. She loved it, and she loved Hoko-nu, and Khija, and all the children of extortion that had come to be within it, but she loved it all as one might love a painting on a wall, or a poem written by another hand and devoted to another thought.

Her coolness became bitter torment, for she knew that somehow she had caused it all to be made manifest. For, though moments of happiness, and even sublime joy, came to pass within her enfolding All, the machinations of Hoko-nu, his encompassing war upon being, his ordering, scattering, and re-ordering, exacted payment for each moment. No instant of bliss or terror could pass within the realm of Hoko-nu unless its price be paid, before, during, or in ages after. Such is the nature of Time the Actor, and though it truly is no fault of Hoko-nu, he is The Tyrant, and though they must perforce work in everlasting concert, he is ever an agony to Nai-kallah the Sustainer.

After eons of observing the ever-changing balances and bargains of the all-seeing governance of Hoko-nu, how, like her, he was everywhere-at-once and nothing escaped his notice, Nai-kallah began to wonder if this was how it must be, and whether it must always be. Since Hoko-nu had come into existence because of her need for meaning and was seemingly her reflection, her balance, in all ways, and since the existence of Khija had been necessary in order that she might see this and know if for truth, was it possible that there could be another truth? If her need had made Hoko-nu, and his need had made Khija and her other children, could she fashion another existence if she had another need?

She watched her children as they made their answers to the inexhaustible, inexorable, inexplicable drives of Hoko-nu, doing his will when they must, taking to themselves little snatches of freedom when he allowed it. She was amazed at their creativity, how together, from time to time, they might conceive and produce a thing of such surpassing beauty and meaning that even Hoko-nu, not given to sublime contemplation, was moved and permitted it to endure as a luminous echo, preserved by Khija the Revealer, down through the ages. And she wondered, vast by comparison as she was to all other things, whether she could perform so simple a feat as these little ones, working together, trusting the advice of Khija.

She pondered, and she figured, and she perceived what her little ones did, and she listened in on their secret thoughts. At last, Nai-kallah knew what she would do. She grew herself just a little bigger, and she twisted off the excess as one might do with a lump of clay in order to make two lumps, tangent to one another but separate: in this way, she hoped to have a private space that Hoko-nu might not discover.

Nai-kallah recorded all the most beautiful and harmonious of the hopes and dreams of her little ones, and she made of them a Seed. The Seed she took and blessed it with all the revelations of Khija to which she had ever borne witness, and so the Seed had the powers of Intention and Revelation. She took the Seed and placed it amid the void of her Other Space, and she gave it only one commandment of Action, that it should grow according to the thoughts imbued into it.

Hoko-nu was unaware of the Seed and its Little World, and so he did not interfere with it or name it unto himself, as he did all else. The Seed grew in strange ways and became a tangle of Roots. The Roots attracted dust and ice and became a globe. These all jostled and rubbed together and made heat, and the ice became water, and the moistened Roots grew Limbs that yearned to be free of the mud. The inner heat was conveyed outward through the Limbs and concentrated, and it became Lights. There were nine Great Lights that kindled at far-sundered places around the globe. These caused Leaves to burgeon on the mighty Limbs. The exhalation of the Leaves was air. The First Wind blew fierce and hot and struck sparks off the Great Lights. Many of these glowing embers stuck to the roof of the new Sky and became the flickering Stars.

Nine Great Lights there were: Ruby, Sapphire, and Gold; Emerald, Obsidian, and Silver; Citrine, Amethyst, and Copper. The trees atop which sat the burning Lights produced many seeds, and mighty forests sprang into being, forests of green and forests of stone. And the First Wind subsided, and cool breezes blew in many places, and the boiling waters were made mild. This was the beginning of Arydna, the World of Roots.

Each steady Root, each searching Tendril, each upthrust Limb, each spreading Leaf, and brilliant Light, each shimmering Star, each roaming Wind, and each reflecting Pool was filled with Intention and yearned for a Revelation and the meaning it might bring. But there was no revelation forthcoming, it seemed, for the Roots were mute, and the trees were dumb, and the Lights, Great and Small, shone a ceaseless Day upon Pools that rippled in directionless Winds. The Winds soughed in the Leaves or howled in the crevices, but there was no one aside from Nai-kallah to interpret the meaning of the twinkling Pools or to contemplate the yawning plaint of the restless Sky.

Not all the hopes and dreams of children are happy ones. And pleasure is founded upon ephemeral release from the constraints of eternal balances and payments, else pleasure would cease and become simply the existence-that-is. All thoughts, all feelings, good or ill, are founded in the desire to impose constraint or to be released from restraint. Even so it was with the Little World that sprang up in hope from the Seed.

Roots were not the only thing to grow from the Seed. There was also a Beast of indeterminate form and immoderate hunger and thirst. As with all things, it both desired to create circumstances and to be freed of consequences. It grew up among the Roots and must feed on the Roots, and it hated Roots and wanted easier food—something soft and sweet, for, though full of the stuff of Life, the Roots were hard and had the too-strong savor of all things packed to overflowing with immortal Growth. The Roots were nutritious indeed, and eating of them would sustain the Beast for ever, but to what end? Even the mightiest Beast would weary of a million centuries of life unending and without variation. The Beast was unhappy and tried to eat his way out of the world under the earth, but the more he ate the more life he got, and the more the Seed caused new growth in the Roots that restored what he consumed—and he never got close to the outer world. He was like a child in the womb who could never get born.

But the Beast made much offal in all his gluttony, and the Roots of the World carried most of it away to the surface of the earth. In places the Great Lights shone their blessed energies upon the leavings of the Beast, and the hateful filth was transformed as many long ages passed. In the muck grew little animal things that no human eye unaided could see. Having been raised up on the stuff of the earth’s Roots, they learned to eat the green things that grew in the Light, and they throve and multiplied and could be found on land, in the air, and in the sea.

In time, lesser beasts of many descriptions made their lives within the confines of Nai-kallah’s world. There was peace in the beasts, and there was battle in the beasts, and they were much like the beasts of the many worlds of Hoko-nu. Nai-kallah despaired, for it seemed that the best Intentions and the most potent Revelations could produce a world no better than the ones she already knew. Actions here in the Little World were directed by the same imperatives that governed the Great Worlds, but here there were none of the children of Nai-kallah to bring understanding and the meaning begotten of understanding. Here, only the great Beast-at-the-Heart-of-the-World had meaning, and his only purpose was the getting of better food.

Rankled that, left on its own, without the ungentle ministrations and drives of Hoko-nu, her Little World could love her even less than the Great Worlds of her hateful lover, Nai-kallah determined to do as Hoko-nu did, to meddle, to make Action. But she was an entity of Intention; she could conceive, and she could endure, but she could not make force. So, she conceived the body of a woman, and she concentrated her Intention within that body. Nai-kallah-ka the body named itself, and she walked naked upon the surface of the land, and swam in the waters, and slept in the trees. She ate the fruits of the earth and drank the rains of the Sky, and she became a creature of the earth—and yet Other.

Nai-kallah-ka wandered a long age upon the face of the Little World, seeking she knew not what. Life was easy but without clear purpose, for all her companions were stupid. All her attempts to spur them to Action only made them do what they always had done. These creatures could not be more than what they were. They loved her, and even the most violent would do her no harm and would fawn upon her, but they had no power to aid her quest.

She sat herself down upon a slab of stone in the cold blackness of the Obsidian Light and wept. Her tears fell about her and turned to amber crystals of ice. Many beasts came and licked at the ice. Among those were some little ones that went on two legs, and these seemed to be strangely affected by her tears, for they sat down with her and shed their own tears.

Looking upon the poor things, she saw that she had caused only grief in her self-pity, so she rose up and went to a place of many hues where the radiance of the Sapphire Light, the Ruby Light, and the Emerald Light met and mingled, and yet the illumination was so dim that the glittering Stars could be seen. Nai-kallah-ka was there, among the trees and the ever-changing reflections of the Pool, so struck by the beauty of the Little World that she began to sway to the music of the nearby waterfall, and she began to sing. That blessed Pool became ever after known as the Water of Creation, for the echoes of her song were strong in that place, and many who came there were relieved of their cares and themselves made songs, and when they went back into the wide world, they were greater and wiser than they had been.

As she swayed and Sang, Nai-kallah-ka seemed to take in the mingled radiance of the three Great Lights and of the Stars, and she began to burn like a sun, and every now and again, that fire would become too great for her to bear, and the excess would blast away from her in a ring of radiance, seemingly setting the trees aflame in a holy fire of many hues. But the trees did not burn. Rather they took in the holy light and made it their own, so that they glowed with an inner flame that faded slowly, and the trees seemed to strain toward her, awaiting eagerly the next moment that she would slough off. Wave upon wave of glorious radiance echoed around the Little World and woke up the trees, and the beasts ceased all their living for a time, stilled, silent, attentive only to the loving desire of the Music that was transmitted outward on the wings of light. Even the mighty Beast-at-the-Heart-of-the-World ceased his gnawing and strained to hear.

Broad and slow and deep was the song of Nai-kallah-ka, full of unending sorrows, full of immeasurable pity, fundamental as the Abyss, so profound that it seemed to reach beyond the confines of the Little World, beyond the Encircling Darkness, and back into the First Existence and the Great Worlds. It is said that Hoko-nu was greatly disturbed, though he knew not why, and stilled his Action for a time. In that time, it is said, all the creatures in the Great World knew a surcease from their many travails, and the greatest made such arts in that time, in their nature so full of understanding and beauty, that no art has ever since been made to rival it; the mighty still exert themselves to create its like—and utterly fail, for the release from a million generations of toil and pain made a joy that only those who lived in that time could ever know.

Her anguish spent, the Song of Nai-kallah-ka began to change, and its pace quickened, and its voice heightened. It seemed that a multitude of brilliant horns and resplendent strings wove together into a harmonious whole, and words mingled with the Music, words of wisdom and exhortation, placid and yet compelling in their incomprehensible profundity. And the beasts awoke from their astonishment, and those with voices joined in a chorus, adding their primordial, knowledgeless sapience to the Music, and increasing its symmetry and its power.

Basking in the flowing radiance, looking on the Stars and dancing in response as they wheeled a dervish to the Music, the little ones of two legs came out of their stupor and became aware of themselves, and they began to have a dim comprehension of the things of which Nai-kallah-ka sang. Haltingly, quietly, the little ones began themselves to sing with words, and as they sang their understanding increased, and they became aware of one another, and that each sang with her own voice and her own words, and their joy in the discovery of Other Minds was very great. The power of their little voices grew and took on a discordant unity, seemingly at variance one with another, and yet interleaving, all tributary to an abundant and profound whole, progressing with grace and comprehension toward ever-greater accord as their music became ever more like the Music of Nai-kallah-ka.

And Nai-kallah-ka became aware of the Euphony of her little Children of the Light, and she diminished the intensity of her own singing and listened as the three songs, her own Music, the Music of the Slow-Witted, and the Music of the Enlightened progressed together and melded together into an existence of such indescribable Rejoicing that no other Joy that was ever felt had any real and lasting meaning. All who had a part in that mingled Music were full and had no lack, and all need for meaning—even the encompassing need of Nai-kallah—ceased. In surpassingly abundant Life, there was Death, for all was fulfilled, and nothing remained to be done; all understanding was achieved; all things in the Little World knew Nai-kallah, and she knew all things therein.

To preserve the Little World and bring meaning back into it, Nai-kallah-ka ceased her singing altogether. And, without her redolent radiance and her upholding cadence, the Stars went back to their slow wheeling, the trees began again to slumber, and the beasts began to grow stupid. The great Beast-at-the-Heart-of-the-World, no longer distracted, went back to his gnawing and hating, and the world shook for a moment as the Roots trembled, their eternal agony renewed. Hoko-nu stirred again, and with vengeance, having been interrupted, and knowing it, and not comprehending how or why, and determined to make up for time lost—and the children of Nai-kallah in the Great Worlds forgot their Art for a long time, busy as they were compelled to be with piling up and tearing down, gathering and scattering. Only the little ones of the Little World seemed really to have gained, for though their memory of the Music faded, they remembered words, and they remembered music, and they remembered Nai-kallah-ka.

And maybe Nai-kallah also gained, for she knew that Euphony was possible. She knew that there was something beyond achieving to no purpose. And she began to ponder how a Eucatastrophe, an upheaval that brings Joy, might be accomplished in the Great Worlds, so that the eons of the subjugation of her children might be brought to an end and made to have meaning for them. She began to think how suffering and misery and hate might be turned into worthy things, evil that is good to have been. Nai-kallah began to conceive how the greatest Story of all might be woven out of the fabric of tears and assuage the everlasting wrath of Hoko-nu.

MONOGOTO

Illimitable Night.

The Great Eye.

The Eye of Infinite Eyes,

Opens its Light,

Stabbing out in all directions,

Seeing All,

Beginning to End.

Irreconcilable Day.

The Flaming Eye,

The Lidless Panopticon,

Closes into night,

The Day and Dark duly divided—

All recorded,

Fulfilling the End.

Impermanent Heat.

The In-Turned Eye

Sees only Itself,

Having flashed out,

Leaving dazzles and sparks

Wafting away

Into the Void.

Irreducible Cold.

The heat of the Moment,

Filling a hole too vast,

Radiates ice-shards,

Whirling, glittering:

Shards and sparks,

Winking away.

Invisible Affirmament.

The Eye blinded,

Ancient Dark returning,

The Great Spider weaves

Webs drifting unseen,

Unanchored, enveloping,

Enshrouding Sight.

Imperceptible Bonds.

Silk-strands thrum

In timeless time,

Dying embers, dusty clots,

Frozen flakes catching

In their knots,

Collating detritus.

Indomitable Light.

Little flame-eyes

Burn the unseen ropes,

Carrying away wisps

In their wandering wake,

Cocooned waste

Bobbling and flailing.

Impossible Life.

Spiderlings rush in,

Repairing Mother’s rent webs,

Making moments of certainty,

Risings of the Sun:

Little Eyes reflect,

And close into Night.

Interminable Now.

All things immediate

And set into amber,

Sliced by percipience,

Known piece by piece,

Sum-totaled,

End to Beginning.

METASTASIS

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“Is all that I sense all that is real? Is reality limited to what I can sense? I can recall the past. I can speculate about the future. I can imagine the existence of things I have never experienced. Does this make them all real?” —Horst Samuelson

---

A voice, both high and profound, both beseeching and commanding, both gentle and harsh, spoke into the everlasting night, and said: “Look now, as from very far afar, upon the great spaces that have been wrought, that are being wrighted, and that will come to be wrought. See thee with studious eyes That which Is, That which Was, and That which Shall Be. Hunger thee to enter verily in and devour with sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste, pang, and joy the great feast which lies now spread out before thee. Yea, thou mighty spirits, thou powers in potential, thou hearts of my heart, seek thee after the things that there are to seek. Gazing upon it, as if from upon high, what seest thou, Ladies and Lords in mind? Art thou enamored of them, thou universes unto thyselves, the pretty little lights amid the void? Dost thou detest them, thou empty spaces full of nothing but dreams, the vast pits of hate and fear and fang and claw that consume the lights? What think thee of time and of space, of light and of night, of fire and of ice, of longing and of fulfillment, of life and of death? What say thee to right and wrong, and what think thee of the ploughshare and the sword, and what know thee of the giving and the wanting? For this wert thou born, and now must thou do thy duty and thy pleasure, and proclaim to me according to thy purpose and thy power!”

And so the Hearers of the Voice did as they were bidden, and they looked down into the little realm englobed amid the Eternal Night and beheld the tiny lights that flitted about therein, sparkling as they came into being, shining out for a brief time, and then winking again out of existence, players in an ever-changing story, performing their part and then leaving the stage. And they became aware that many, many things, even as they changed throughout the millennia of progressing time and space, remained essentially the same, and became as principles fundamental to being, echoes down a long corridor that extended from the beginning of all things to the end of all things. And they saw as a few of the vast multitude of lights shone out brighter than the rest, and they hearkened as some voices shouted above the cacophony, and they strained their ears as some few voices whispered a few poignant noises, passing nearly unnoticed and utterly profound among the bustle and chatter of the living cosmos.

“Speak thee, thou souls of my soul,” commanded the One Voice of All Voices. “Thou hast seen and heard. Speak and be heard here and now that thy brethren may come to comprehend thee. Let thy voices ring out in praise and condemnation! Let thy passions be stirred and thy hates be goaded! Let thy loves and thy rages move thee to expression, and let thy reasons and thy misapprehensions not withstand!”

And so the Spirits-in-Attendance did speak as they were commanded by Father Time, the Voice of All Voices. Together they wrought the Song, and they Sang it, and the Song went out from their place of abiding and filled up all the vast spaces of Mother Universe. There has never been a song like The Song in all of Time, but there is no means to describe it, for the singing of the Song was unlike all other musics, and, hearing it, no human ear can comprehend it, and no human soul can add to it or subtract from it. The Song became the mover of all things, for the Song flowed without ceasing, and the echoes of it can be heard still, and when all is quiet, the little lives that live in all the little places that were wrought in that most ancient time can yet hear the Song, and they, too, are moved to song. The Song of the Servants of the Voice of All Voices became the Intention of the Universe, and Fate to all the little lives that inhabit all the spaces in the vast halls and chambers of Mother Universe.

ANTIPODES

All children.

All ancients.

All finite.

All infinite.

All small.

All tall.

All believers.

All atheists.

All women.

All men.

All emotional.

All logical.

All warriors.

All cowards.

All black.

All white.

All physical.

All spiritual.

All hate.

All love.

All worthy.

All worthless.

All beast.

All human.

All bound.

All free.

All you.

All me.

All wonder.

All jaded.

All sunrise.

All sunset.

All loud.

All quiet.

All destroyers.

All saviors.

All destroyed.

All saved.

All ignorant.

All enlightened.

All poets.

All haters of poetry.

All alive.

All dead.

All begun.

All ended before it began.

DAYS AND NIGHTS

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“When does the real reality begin? When something happens we didn’t expect, maybe can’t explain, we start to think that there might be levels of reality of which we’re unaware. If we wish to know what lies beyond our immediate experiences, we have two choices: call it magic, or call for reason.”—Horst Samuelson

---

The dull grey rain fell from the dark and heavy sky in sheets and whorls onto the waving trees and great spires of stone and rushed and foamed into the mud and sand. The wide black waters rose and fell in the wild wind and spat flecks and flotsam onto the shore. The heat was nonetheless oppressive, and despite the heaving and churning of the mighty lake, the beasts, great and small, stayed in the brine to avoid it.

But suddenly, a troupe of little, long-tailed, four-legged fellows was tossed onto the strand. Momentarily stunned and squirming aimlessly, their wet little bodies glittered in the wan light.

The sky slowly became a red glow over the tiny amphibians as they reoriented themselves and attempted to slip back into the surf. They wiggled and strove, and the clouds grew ever redder, and a great, deep thrumming rode over the roaring of the wind. As the first of the newt-things flopped back into the water, a terrible explosion threw up all the rocks, earth, plants, and creatures for miles around, and great waves and bolts flailed all across the spectrum of energy. Not being protected by the water, the little newt-things got the worst of it. They landed miles farther down the beach, writhing in agony and confusion. Some of them survived the meteor—but they were changed.

---

It was a dry, hot day on the rocky plain. Almost all the days for a thousand years had been hot and dry. Skeletal conifers struggled against the sun, and a hulking form rested itself in the meager shade of the largest of the emaciated trees. A small, sinewy lizard slipped out of a crack in the packed dust and shot through the heat-shimmer toward a patch of drying mud. It scooped some into its mouth and chewed for a bit, and then spat out the wad. Suddenly, it whipped up onto a large standing stone, lifted its head into the sun, opened its little jaws, and let out a mighty, whooping bark, and then another, and then another, in rapid succession. Within a few seconds, others of its kind exploded onto the plain and swiftly converged on the dwindling source of precious water.

The bulk in the shade yawned, stretched, and took a sniff. Sensing something she liked, she grunted as she arose, and then scented some more. Turning her head toward the mudhole and listening for a moment, she burst out of the shadow and leapt and bounded for the unsuspecting food that awaited. Dipping her mighty head, she scooped up three of the little lizards. Just as quickly as they had gathered at the mud hole, the survivors swarmed up onto and over their attacker. They found her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth and squirted her with their highly concentrated urine. As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

The hulking reptile stood confounded, sneezing, spitting, blinking wildly, and shaking her urine-slicked hide. She glistened and heaved in the afternoon light. After a few minutes, she gave a final hack and blow through her nostrils. She looked about for a moment, gave a low grunt, and went back to her tree to lie down. A little liquid and protein to save her from death in the great heat, but not enough to satisfy. Maybe tomorrow.

The next day, the little whippers got up a bit before dawn and convened again at the mudhole. They were disappointed to find that the remainder of yesterday’s heat had been sufficient to dry it all away. The scout who had found it yesterday gave a quiet chirp, scented the air for a few moments, and began skittering away toward the northwest. The others stood watching her for a bit, and then followed.

They followed Scout for a week in the horrible, cloudless, overheated land. Of the thirty-two who had set out, only twenty-five remained, and six of them were close to death. Only one small mudhole had been found along the way—not enough to slake the thirst of even the most desert-hardened creature. But today the sky began to cloud over, and a hint of moisture came into the hard-baked air. A cooling breeze stirred, and in the shade of a passing cloud, the whippers stopped to enjoy.

That was enough for the two sidewinding snakes that had been trailing them to sneak in and nab two of their number and slip away. The whippers had no urine and no energy to spare, and so allowed the snakes to go unmolested. Twenty-three remained, and the cloud passed. They toiled on.

Five grueling hours later, the whippers scuttled to a disorderly stop as big, stunning drops pounded down onto the ruined land. Recovering from her shock, and almost seeming pleased with herself, Scout led her followers with a skipping gate into a nearby pile of rocks. Perhaps they would be protected from both the pelting and the flood which would probably follow.

Three more whippers perished, too worn down to be saved by the blessed, horrible moisture. The desert, however, was brought back to life. In the sun of the new morning, seeds that had lain dormant for more than four years sprouted and grew swiftly. A day after that, there were flowers blooming, insects buzzing, and a swarm of whippers darting about. Hundreds had been converging on the place for weeks, individually following the same weak impulse which had led Scout and her troupe here.

---

Warm days prevailed before the first of the new species arose. In a belt which girdled the earth from Arctic circle to Antarctic circle, verdant green overgrew the dust and the rocks. Even the Great Encircling Sea was bordered and partially covered with green. In the emerald world, the reptiles arose from things that waddled in the dirt to behemoths whose heads rose to the height of trees. But there was a time of great cold between the Great Desert and the Great Green, and little things of hot blood came into being then. These still strove to keep themselves alive in the face of the mightiest creatures ever to stride upon the face of the earth.

---

A furry face popped out of the hole on the vast, verdant plain. The sharp nose sniffed rapidly in several directions. The little fellow stopped for a few minutes, listening. Thump, thump, thump, from the distance. Reptillian heads could be seen at least a mile away, coming out of the deciduous forest. The little furry creature hopped onto the grass, looked back down into the hole, and made a sharp, high-pitched bark. Three other similar heads shot up and chirped at Sniffer. He went farther out and positioned himself in the path of the oncoming dinosaurs.

Lumbering they came, their mighty bellies sagging and wagging, their great, long tails waving and snapping. Sniffer sat where he was, awaiting them. Finally, they arrived, about halfway to the next patch of woodland. The lead brachiosaurus raised up its tree-trunk leg, and Sniffer stood up and barked as loud as he could. Startled, the brachiosaur reared up onto its hind legs and crashed down. She ran off, taking the rest of the herd with her. They crashed through the nearby clump of squat nut-trees, knocking off branches and scattering nuts, splinters, and leaves for an impressive distance.

Once the brachiosaurs were a few dozen yards away, the clan of furry, weasel-like marsupials rushed out of their den. The furry-whippers began gathering the nuts and leaves, stuffing their marsupia and their cheek-pouches, and loading their forepaws. They wadded back through the grass with their booty.

Hidden in another copse of trees, something akin to pears, a pair of hungry allosaurs squatted, snorting and switching their muscular tails. One of them was smaller and younger than the other, less experienced, and when he saw the whole troupe come out of their hole, more than forty of the tasty-looking furry-whippers, his hunger beat out his good sense. He surged out of his hiding place and raced into the nut-gathering frenzy, snapping up three of his prey in one pass. His partner remained in the shadows.

It was amazing to the young allosaur how quickly the furry-whippers dropped their loads and leapt onto him, clawing and biting him, and urinating in the wounds. He was soon a mass of welts and bleeding, stinging tears and gouges. Two of the furry-whippers took advantage of his confusion and began gnawing into his thick hamstrings. They were halfway through before he was fully aware of them. He gave a mighty kick and dislodged them, but his hick also snapped his hamstring, and he fell over like a sack of bricks.

The elder allosaur finally came out of hiding then. Seeing him coming, and not wishing to lose any more of their number, the furry-whippers retreated and fled for their hole. With his great serrated teeth buried in its neck, he dispatched his struggling companion, and consumed what he wished, and then he walked away to find a good place to sleep off his repast. The furry-whippers swarmed over the remains and began chewing off bits and hauling them down into their dens, working as swiftly as they could to avoid the larger scavengers that would soon show up, forgetting for the moment all about the nuts for which they had started all this. Three lost, but enough protein to feed the young for weeks, and all those tasty nuts would probably still be there later.

---

So it was on many a day. Outsmarting dinosaurs, pterosaurs, and birds of all kinds, sacrificing a few so that the majority could live, the furry-whippers throve and grew in numbers, while their contemporaries were reduced in kinds and population.

But, another fateful day came. On a warm plain near the ocean, a troupe stood enjoying the morning breeze, its coolness, its pleasing sussurance, and all its information-filled odors. They saw the blazing dot appear in the sky, and did not comprehend its significance, but with senses beyond those of other creatures, they felt its fascinating menace. They watched for a time. As it grew in size and intensity, they became restive. Other creatures finally noticed, and even the brightest of them gazed up dumbly. But as the fiery glow dominated all the land, the furry-whippers descended into their dens and covered up the openings.

The devastation was terrible in the extreme. A great bite was taken out of the crust of the earth, delving even into the mantle. The detonation of the meteor was so potent that the lands shot up in searing sparks and the sea flew up into great, hot clouds. The forests for hundreds of miles lit up like tinder. Such great amounts of dust, vapor, and smoke were thrown into the sky, and to such heights, that the sun was blotted out all round the world for more than a year. The large creatures on land were all killed off, and the little creatures were hard-pressed, only a small number surviving to again see the days of the sun. It was better in the sea, for there was much small life that could survive for a time without the sun, but even there life was much harder for years after. Only the little furry-whippers had survived almost completely intact, having laid up a great store of food, and knowing how to seek for water and minerals, and having learnt long ago how to work together in the face of fear and hardship.

---

The cacophony was deafening. Great and colorful birds, some as great as seven feet tall, seemed to be everywhere. They strutted, flapped their wings, dipped their long necks, and cawed and coughed. A herd of little horse-creatures grazed nervously nearby, whickering and complaining, knowing that at any moment the posturing killer-birds might stop their bluster and realize they were hungry. Insects of all description buzzed and chirruped. Flying birds acrobatically picked them out of the sky. In the distance a pair of lumbering beasts like overgrown rhinoceri snorted and grunted and pounded the burdened ground.

It was a sunny summer day. The breeze was low, and the heat was climbing. Miasmic odors permeated the slow air and weighed it down with life and death. Dung of every description hung on the zephyr, mixing with the fragrances of the astounding array of multi-colored flowers that dotted the high grass amid the sparse trees. There was an insidious undertone of dozens different musks. The wind picked up for a moment and drove in a blast from the rotten carcass hidden behind a mound about half a mile away to the east.

In the midst of it all were about seventy mud towers in shapes like those of termite mounds, each about ten feet tall and twelve feet around. A small, furry head would pop up every minute or so from the top of each of the mounds, and a little pink nose would wiggle for a moment. The heads would take in a three-hundred-sixty degree view, the side-mounted ears would shiver, and then the head would disappear.

Suddenly, over all the din, a loud hoot-hoot-yaw was heard in the south, about a hundred yards away. Within seconds fifty or more mammals with long forelimbs and short hind limbs surged out of the great mounds toward the overriding sound. Another of their kind was there, hopping up and down, letting out another hoot-hoot-yaw every few seconds.

His companions came to him near two large rocks, one six feet high and the other a good deal smaller. Under the smaller boulder was a swath of bloody grass, and several of the little creatures worked together to roll it over. Underneath they found the smashed head of a large lizard, its shocked body still wriggling and shaking. Eight of the two-foot-tall primate troupe took hold of the fresh kill and began to bear it into the nearest mound. The rest ranged away from the bearers in a rough ring, and Hunter sprinted to the top of the mound and scanned the area.

They had attracted the attention of the hunting-birds, who now stopped their squawking and hullabaloo to watch the proceedings. Three of the large birds edged closer, maybe thinking they could score a free lunch. Hunter was aware of them and let out a ya-ya-oo-ah. The outwalkers perked up and began hooting and snarling. The great birds weren’t intimidated by these pipsqueaks. They gave out a bellowing yee-ak-ak-uk and raced in to get the meal rightfully theirs.

A row of kicking and pecking followed, and three of the little colonists went down, one of them flying several yards with her bloody entrails whipping out behind her. The colonist troupe collected itself out of its initial dismay, scattered, and began its counterattack, spraying the tall birds with overwhelmingly potent musk-laden urine. In the confusion, they hopped onto the birds and rammed wads of grass into their beaks and gouged their eyes. One of the hunting-birds went down kicking at the air. Its bowels released and added to the mighty stink. Another managed to kick out of the fray. It hacked up the grass-clod and galloped away, but it had lost one eye and had broken a toe, injuries which would probably lead to its death in a few weeks. The third got away clean, but it was clearly nonplussed, and it made no move to come back in for revenge.

The colonists had paid heavily for their lizard: three of them were dead, and seven more were heavily injured. But the nearby scavengers didn’t dare swoop in. The little fellows carried the lizard into the mound, and then came out to finish off the downed bird and haul it into the mound as well. And, lastly, they came back to retrieve their fallen comrades. Hunter resumed his lookout post.

About ten minutes after the colonists retreated into their mounds, an uproar of howls and yip-yips burst out from under the earth. All the area round about went silent in amazement and alarm. This went on for nearly an hour, and the creatures nearby slowly grew accustomed to it.

Then, with the surprise of a lightning bolt coming down out of a cloudless day, the great mounds seemed to explode with scores of furry bodies, screaming and popping high into the dead air. Their din and chaos tore through the afternoon stillness. And even the mightiest creatures within hearing fled and didn’t look back. They would no doubt remember the wrath and dread of the little colonists for a long time to come.

The little angry ones kept at it for more than half an hour, and then just as suddenly stopped, as if at an unseen signal. They stood and listened and sniffed the air. They felt the vibrations in the ground, and used other strange senses for a time, and then their tension eased. Several of them picked up eggs that had been abandoned, as well as the body of a horse-creature that had been trampled to death as its parents fled for their lives. The deaths of their clan-mates had been a serious blow to the colony, but the food, when mixed with the herbs and grass which grew near-to-hand, would stand them in good stead for days. Who knows if their grief was genuine, but it made a great impression on the other creatures of the savannah.

---

The climate of the area changed over the millennia. A heavy temperate rain forest now held sway. Pines, spruces, hickories and oaks of various sorts dominated the landscape. Rain was obviously plentiful, considering the standing puddles, the mossy and ferny undergrowth, the multitudes of fungi, and the strong mouldering scent. The tree-tops were full of birds chirping and squawking, and with insects buzzing. Squirrels peep-peeped and scampered, and strangling snakes clung to boughs, waiting for slow prey.

But there was now something very different here. What appeared to be rough-twined ropes spanned the distance between the larger trees. Broken branches seemed to be stacked strategically among the branches of some of the hickories and oaks. And piled upon these apparent platforms were fern leaves and fragrant herbs.

On the broadest tree-flat three squat shapes sat in the perfumed shade. Three young, female chimpanzee-like creatures were there, each with a wrinkly infant attached to a teat, happily but quietly chattering to one another and stroking the little ones.

On a nearby tree-flat sat a silver-backed old fellow with a smaller chimpoid picking at the hair on his grizzled back, every now and again pulling out some tiny, squirming thing and handing it to the old one: it was his, after all. He promptly stuck it in his mouth and chewed it. Down below, on the forest floor, two youngsters were nosing about, one making funny faces at the other and slapping her with a fern-frond, and the other poking a stick down all the holes and chittering with pleasure when some little thing ran out or something within growled. Other forms could be seen swinging through the branches, and every now and again an oot-oot-ooh would issue from thirty or forty yards away, signaling the all-clear. And, down by the creek, crouching by herself in the muddy sandy shale, an old female placed a large leaf on a flat rock, slathered it with some sticky substance she had scraped from another flat stone, and placed another large leaf atop it at a ninety-degree angle.

The scene held for a time, chimpoids ooting and chittering and chattering, birds tweeting and cawing, flies and bees and wasps buzzing, the tree-top breeze whooshing, pleasant odors drifting lazily about, and the noonday light peeping here and there down through the canopy, slowly heating up the cool underforest. Suddenly, a great racket of fern-whacking and oot-oot-ayeeeeeeah-aht-ing broke out from below. All the nearby adults and nearly-grown chimpoids rushed to the scene and found the little boy trying to scrabble up a hole in a huge oak, his screams muffled by the thick bulk of the tree. Two adults pulled him out, and he immediately began shouting “nah-nah-nah! Oot-oot-aya-aht! Nah! Nah!” over and over. They all knew what this meant: a python had grabbed the little girl and absconded with her, apparently into the hole in the great oak. At last, the old woman from the creek made her appearance, holding a large leaf bag that shook and shivered. A great cacophony of shouts and squeaks went up for several minutes. When calm was restored at last, she issued her commands with a series of calls and gestures, and the others began to go about their business.

She knew there was no way the adults could get into the hole, and she knew that the children could. But the children were not strong enough to haul out the snake, and so the little girl was lost. However, she was going to teach the stupid snake, and all the other creatures of the forest who had not yet understood the lesson, what happened when you disturbed the joy and peace of her kind. There were six holes in the oak that were large enough for the python to enter and exit, and a watcher was placed at each. The others went on with their tasks or their leisure and awaited the time when the old one would teach her lesson.

She unwrapped her package, a trout and a large rock. She smacked the trout with the rock, bit it in half, gave half to the old man who lay next to her, and ate her own half. The old man didn’t respond to her offer, and she leaned in to check his breathing, and then sighed and dipped her head for a few minutes. She then called softly to a neighbor, who came and helped her drag the old man’s corpse away to a place outside the ring of their encampment. There were sentries there who could tell her when the forest scavengers came and took the body away. Two in one day. This was a hard blow to her, personally, as well as to all the others, and they all hung their heads for the remainder of the otherwise beautiful afternoon.

The hours of the snake-watch drew on, and the others brought food to the watchers from time to time. Chimpoids on the ground strewed the forest floor beneath the old oak with large, flat burdock leaves so that when the watchers’ offal came down, they could easily carry it away. The hours of the watch became days, and the days became weeks—over a month the watch lasted. Not once did the watchers move from their posts, nor did they seem to sleep: their only movements came when they ate or when they relieved themselves.

Finally, on the forty-first day of their watch, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, the desperate snake made a test of their vigil. He poked his scaly head out of the topmost hole, about thirty feet up over a large, half-rotten bough, and he took a few readings with his flickering tongue, and sensed nothing untoward. Then, he pushed himself out a couple of feet. A form dropped out of the branch above, and a heavy rock came down onto his head. His instinctive recoil was all that saved him. He withdrew instantly back into his hidey-hole and tried to wait, but even a snake has to eat every few weeks, especially since his last meal was so meager, and so the waiting was hard.

Two more days passed, and the python knew that if he didn’t escape this time, he was probably doomed. He shot out of the largest hole near the base of the old oak and made a break for it. The six watchers were on him before he went ten feet, and they beat him with rocks until he was properly stunned. The old lady was summoned very noisily, and she came limping to the scene. She barked and ooted and ah-ahed her instructions, and the others understood.

A dozen adults picked up the writhing snake and hauled it away, out of the encampment, cracking it over the head as necessary to keep it in its stupor. The others began to make an awk-awk-hweet-wah noise as loudly as they could as they walked along with the snake-bearers. Old Grandma knew that this was the mating call of the great rhea, one of the favorite foods of the megatiger. The imitation wasn’t exact, but it should be enough to draw the attention of all the creatures in the area, especially the great tigers. And it worked. All the forest for more than a mile round went silent, except for the calls of the chimpoids. Three huge tigers came to the fringes of the procession to see what the uproar was about, hoping that the trees had just distorted the cries of the mating rheas. But when they saw the source of the commotion, they remained in the shadows, for there were at least sixty adult chimpoids present.

At Grandma’s instruction, several of her followers began to hoist the mighty, fifteen-foot-long snake into an apple tree with twisted and spiny branches. With the aid of their hammer-stones, they wedged the python’s tail end into a narrow fork on a branch just high enough to allow his head to rest on the ground. They backed away and waited for him to recover enough to begin squirming a little. When he did, the lot of them issued, almost in unison, an eerie, chittering laugh as they ran off.

The tigers knew what to do. After the chimpoids had departed to a safe distance, the three tawny, muscular forms padded quickly in and had themselves an easy feast. Not often were they able to trap a python, and the meat was sweet. They were three very happy cats.

Grandma was a clever one. Not only had she shown the other forest animals a lesson even the dullest of them would not forget, but she had rid herself of a troublesome enemy, and had also laid the groundwork for an unlikely friendship between species which would otherwise have been the bitterest of foes. Cats and chimpoids would now begin their walk together down through the ages.

REQUIEM FOR THE STARS

We spoke the words of greeting,

And, warm and kind though they were,

Out they came in puffs of dust.

We ate our fill of the tree of life,

And, high and green though it grew,

Its roots dug deep in sifted dust.

We tast’d the bitter fruit of knowing,

And, great and noble though we were,

The fruit, we knew, was clots of dust.

We drank the cup of parting,

And, cold and hard though drinking seemed,

The cup was caked in layered dust.

We summed it up with abacus’,

And, high and clever though we built,

We work’d it out that we were dust.

DAILY FIELDS

---

“The word magus is held to be etymologically allied to the word sage, which indicates a very wise person. A magus is seen as a holder of secret knowledge who, by performing mysterious rituals, can make the things she desires actually happen. When the priest obeys the strange rules of the otherworldly realm where her deity resides, that deity moves its power to impose new conditions on the priest’s world. This is wish fulfillment done by some powerful otherworldly agent who superimposes the rules of its world onto our world in order—to satisfy the magus’s desire that her own will be done.”—Kugilya of Baligneth

---

I am Mr. Finch. That guy to my right—that’s Mr. Finch. To my left, Mr. Finch. In front of me, Mr. Finch. Behind me: Mssr. Finch. Two hops up, one hop left is Ms. Finch, whom I fancy very much. But one hop back and three left is Ms. Finch, and I like to catch a good glimpse of her when Ms. Finch is busy.

The hot-shiny lightflower is high up, and I can’t see any fluffy sky-shadow-makers. Lots of bright places and non-bright places. A puff of wind is blowing—I smell seeds! Happy seeds! Stuffy seeds! Ooh! There’s the seed-tower. Flit. Flit. Land. Peck. Peck, Peck.

Hey, down there in the greeny green! Scatter seeds. Scatter seeds. Seeds for you! Plenty to go round! Peck, peck, peck, peck. Scatter seeds.

The noisy-giants don’t eat seeds. Stupid. There’s a noisy-giant sitting in the belly of a noisy-roller now. It’s looking right at me. Noisy-giants don’t eat us, but I don’t like them much. They live with barky-tails, and the barky-tails sometimes kill us for fun. They live with the scratchy-tails, too. Ms. Finch and Mssr. Finch, Sr. were killed and eaten recently by the damned scratchy-tails.

Is that a scratchy-tail calling? Launch. Fly, fly. No. It’s just one of those little-noisy-grabbies that live with the noisy-giants. Fly back. Hey, Ms. Finch! Not fair! Give me back my place! There we go. Peck, peck, peck. Scatter seeds.

So, as I was saying…What was I saying? Oh, well. I think I’ll go over here for a while. Flit. The noisy-roller is silent, and it’s a good wind-break. The weather is a little warmer today, and the puddle in the black tar has thawed—but my feet are still cold. Let me just hop up on the grey bar-lump. Now I can see better. Peck. Peck. Ooh! I think I pecked some poop. Speaking of poop… Okay. Better just pop over a little. I’ll use the rough surface to clean my beak.

Here come my companions. Mind the poop! Oh, well. Ms. Finch on my right. Ms. Finch on my left. Many Ms’s. and Mr’s. I feel pretty good.

It’s a fine time for talking. Peep. Peep, peep. Ms. Finch looks and makes no reply. Ms. Finch is watching Mr. Finch. He’s a nice enough fellow, but look at me, how fluffy I am, how symmetrical my feather-pattern. Mr. Finch is a little dull, and he doesn’t say much. Peep. Peep, peep. Less huddling and more talking, please. Ms. Finch makes a polite response, but she isn’t really interested in talk.

I’m bored. I love my tribe of Finches, but you’re boring. We need a good scratchy-tail scare to liven things up. PEEPEEPEEP!

Lots of peeping, looking, hopping, turning this way and that.

Oh, seeds! Flit. Peck, peck, peck. Scatter seeds.

---

Look at them bouncing around. I can’t stop looking at them. If the invisible wall wasn’t keeping me inside the cave, maybe I’d go play with them awhile. They’re like yarn-balls, but with blood. Mm. Tasty blood. My feed-me/pet-me should put a piece of fresh liver in my yarn-ball. My feed-me/pet-me is more than a little stupid, but I’ll get her trained.

I suppose you’ll want to know my me-noise. Noisy-two-legs always want to put me-noises on things. I have no me-noise. I am the claws of the night breeze. Haha! I am the silent watcher, she-who-moves-unseen, the one who comes and goes, the terror of little squeaky things. Bahahaha! They call me—Miss Kitty. Okay. Okay. Calm your quivering dread, if you can. Apparently, everyone’s got to have a me-noise. I think my feed-me/pet-me calls me Miss Kitty so she won’t be terrified of my overwhelming awesomeness.

I am grace incarnate. Yawn. Stretch. Claw, claw. Take that, fluffy noisy-giant seat by the invisible wall. Darn it! I’ve got a claw stuck. Mrow! Okay. That’s better. Settle in again.

The feather-balls are still out there. Dummies. They can’t see me sitting here, wondering how many I can fit in my stomach. Lucky for them, I suppose, that the feed-me/pet-me is generous with the chicken-fish-nuggets. Oh, you dumb things. You think flying is so great. Sneaking and leaping are so much better. Sitting in a tree and watching some pathetic creature that doesn’t know you’re lurking, that you could be on him in an instant if you took the notion. Oh, yeah! Beware, little feather-balls.

Crap! There’s the bark-and-chase. The noisy-giant in the next cave loves that thing, and loves to let the oaf run free, terrorizing the countryside. Now, that piece of business is the real killer—and a sloppy one at that, galumphing around, yammering and drooling. Don’t let that wagging tail and happy-to-please demeanor fool you. He’d just as soon rip your throat out as look at you. Wouldn’t you, Sparky? Yes, you would, you big, iron-jawed idiot.

The feather-balls. That’s what I was waxing brilliant about. Yes. Individually, they’re even more stupid than the bark-and-chase. But, I’ve got to give the small ones credit. All those watching eyes and ready wings give me a bit of a challenge—on the few occasions when my feed-me/pet-me lets me through the cave entrance. I miss way more than I hit, if you take my meaning. Of course, I’m not unleashing my full power upon them. That wouldn’t be sporting at all.

---

Haha! I see you in the cave-hole, you stupid lounging-screw-you. You think you’re so special—and safe. But your alpha’s a wuss, and she doesn’t love you as much as you think. One day, you and I are going to be outside at the same time—and wham! You won’t know what hit you. Stop looking at my birds!

Birds. Yeah. My alpha needs a bird. She’ll be so happy if I put a bird on the fuzzy-floor in the middle of the front cave. If only she’d undo this leather-thingy, I’d make her so happy. Yank. Stop taunting me, birds. Strain. Strain. Oh, well. My alpha doesn’t know how happy I want to make her.

Birds. Turds. Hey, let me go: I gotta sniff that! Strain. Strain. Aw, come on! All I get to sniff lately is the same old butts and stinky feet, and my own turds. I wanna sniff a mystery turd, darn it! Who’s been here? What’s new in the neighborhood? It looks like a my-kind turd. Strain. Strain. Urgh!

I hear Muffin from down the black-river talking. Woof! Woof, woof! Woo, woo, woo, woof! Yeah, Muffin, mine won’t let me loose today, either.

Sometimes, I think our alphas are a little dumb. Don’t get me wrong. Mine is the absolute best thing ever. Who else gets to eat liverwurst and go on park-walkies like I do? Well, okay, some of my pals have got it pretty good. Well, my alpha’s just the best. I’ll fight you if you don’t think so.

Listen. Sniff. Growl. Urf, urf! There’s something unfamiliar on the wind. New dog? New lounging-screw-you? Strain. Strain. I gotta find out. Urf, urf, urf!

Yeah. Kinda stupid. My alpha doesn’t always understand. I’ve got to explore. It can be fun to play get-the-stick and to get inside the noisy-roller and roll around, and running every few suns in the park is great, but two-legs and four-legs just want different things sometimes. I wanna go with dogs, and be us and them, and kill cows and gnaw the bones. Chew toys and milk bones are good—but, kill-and-eat—oh, yeah. I don’t know where food comes from. Everything’s got the smell of noisy-rollers on it, but have you ever tried to kill-and-eat a noisy-roller? Well, don’t try it. I saw a guy chase down a noisy-roller once, and he bit one of the rollers, and his teeth got caught, and…ooh!

Yeah. Kinda dumb. Alphas are always making funny noises at each other. Every now and again, they make that sound that means me, or Muffin, or Whiskers, or Licky Poo (Licky Poo’s kind of a waste of skin, if you ask me). Mostly though, they just make unnecessary noises that have nothing to do with eating, pooping, peeing, sniffing, or walkies. Mostly, they like to ride in the noisy-rollers, and look at the noisy-box and yell at it, or laugh at it, or cry about it—and they like to rut with other alphas and not even throw me a bone—if you know what I mean.

Yeah. I don’t get alphas—but we need ‘em. Some alphas are pretty unfriendly and don’t play nice with my alpha. Why won’t she let me tear their legs off? Some alphas don’t have dogs—or even lounging-screw-yous. Are they really alphas? They look and smell and sound like alphas…

The world of alphas is kind of confusing, but we gotta have ‘em, right? They know how their world works, right? Mine sure does. She’s the best. I already said that? Well, up yours! I’ll say it again, and again, and again. I’ll bite your butt if you don’t like it—or her. Anyhow, we couldn’t get along if the alphas didn’t make their funny noises and show us how their world works.

Stupid lounging-screw-yous don’t know that.

---

I love my dog. He’s the smartest dog, a dog genius. But this obsession with cats and birds—how do I break that? He’s not as socialized as he should be. If I only had the time and patience. If only I could program him. If only he had an off-switch.

Sparky is so needy and rammy. And he’s a bit of a perve. My left leg is his happy leg. I need to get him laid, but last time I tried it, the bitch didn’t like him. Nine-hundred eighty dollars in vet bills. I sometimes wish I had a low-maintenance, screw-you-if-you-don’t-like-me cat. If a cat goes out at night and doesn’t come back for three days—or at all, are you really that broken up about it? They don’t care what you want, and, if you’re rational, you really don’t know if they love you. But a dog…

I had a bird in a wire cage once. At first, I liked its singing, but then I got annoyed. I started wondering why it kept singing. Was it just programmed to make these noises? Was it singing to other, imaginary birds? Was it trying to tell me something? I thought maybe it wanted to be free. So, I opened the window and the door of its cage. It cocked its little head and looked at me, and it just sat there, and it never sang again. How dumb is that? I never got another bird.

Speaking of annoying pets, I’ve had four boyfriends in the past two years. The first was kind of like that bird. I kept firm control over him, and he loved to talk to me, but when I realized how selfish I was being, how he didn’t have a life outside of me, and I tried to let him go, he didn’t know what to do. My apartment manager evicted him at my request. I hope he’s found a new cage, a new place to sing his song, and a new person to infuse him with meaning.

The second boyfriend was sort of like my neighbor’s cat. Taking him on was my reaction to Cage-bird. The new guy was all himself, and he could be fun, but our lives didn’t seem to intersect as much as I wanted. He had his band and his poetry slams—and I had my job. When I finally got tired of my front door being like a cat door, he yawned, stretched, packed up his guitar and his sheaf of poems (in a tiny duffel along with a six-pack and his two changes of clothes), and he hit the bricks. I see him seldom, and always at a distance as he slides by.

My third boyfriend was sort of a bad combination of Cage-bird and Cat-dude. Like Cage-bird, he needed me. Like Cat-dude, he was constantly trying to do his own thing. Unlike Cat-dude, he wasn’t especially good at doing his own thing. This made him more like a little kid I was nannying—or a silly puppy. He could hold a job if I held his hand, and he constantly and sloppily tried to attend my needs. I let him hump my leg for a while, but…

After Puppy-boy was the fourth, and, I hope, last—at least for a year or two while I cleanse my palette. Again, he was a reaction. I call him the Climbing Vine. He went steadily to his job. He sat on my couch and was pliant in my hands. He was pretty to look at. He even seemed, at first, to supply me with fresh oxygen. He was regular, dull, and obsessed with making a good appearance—how else could the vine climb the trellis? His need for cosmetic substance could have at least been the basis for some heated arguments, but he just accepted that I didn’t share the need—and eventually he took root somewhere else. He had met me at a party where I was dressed to the nines and oozing with schmoozing—and he was disappointed, as he got to superficially know me, to learn that this was not my everyday ambition. Ah, well, Bye. Bye. You are full of fertilizer, and I think you will grow—like a kudzu. You are the weed that can’t be gotten rid of. I still see you everywhere, you social climbing vine.

So, for companionship, I got Sparky. He loves me because he needs to love somebody. In return, I pretend not to notice when he humps my leg. I’m sure you think that’s gross and more than a little pervy, but we both get what we need—I think.

My dog worships me and thinks I’m where the world begins and ends—but the world doesn’t share that opinion. That’s why I’m a computer engineer. That world makes sense and is firmly under my control—and I get paid for it so I can pay the world to let me tell it to go to hell. No boyfriends and a worshipful dog whom I can passively pay to be my friend. That’s about as sweet as life gets.

---

I sit. I sit. I sit. It feels safe and right. On one side there is shadow that sometimes gets less shady. On the other side there is a light that turns black, then bright, then black—again, again, again. It is good. I am alive.

      I have up. I have down. Part of me digs and grips. Part of me reaches and sways. I eat, and I drink. I breathe in, and I simultaneously breathe out. I await, neither eagerly nor dreadfully, the production of progeny. I blissfully absorb the pleasant vibrations, spreading out to catch them all, and I endure the unpleasant vibrations, curling in to limit the damage. I’m sure life is ephemeral as I feel the pulse of it coursing slowly through me, but life seems eternal to me as I feel the cycles of sap, light, and respiration.

      There are a couple of other rooter-reachers nearby: I can smell their fragrances, one sweet and subtle, one acrid and loud. There are other rooter-reachers in the shadows somewhere within smelling distance, but they are sad things, dying away, cut off from their roots and slowly losing their strength and desire to reach.

      The movers come and go. The nice one who vibrates sweetly to me and gives me water and food just at the right times has gone away, I think. I felt the sharp reverberation and pressure change that signals the long silence of the nice one. I think the nice one and the rambunctious one have gone away together. Ooh, I don’t care for the rambunctious one with its frequent staccato pulses of loudness. Something sprayed warm, acidic salt water on me recently—and I’m sure it was the rambunctious one. The unpleasant water is still in my earth; I can taste it.

BIFRÖST

I cut the ham,

And slice the bread,

And part the cheese,

And have a sandwich,

Chewing;

I see my wife,

I say a word,

She slaps my face,

I feel the sting,

Burning,

As I leave the house,

Cross the street,

And spy a man,

Who sees my face,

Laughing,

At my misfortune,

Till I jiggle his belly,

And we begin to fight,

And we fall down,

Snarling,

While dutiful police

Put us in handcuffs

And haul us away,

And take us “downtown”,

Smiling,

At their good fortune:

Something to do

As time passes by,

And into the cell we go,

Complaining,

Till we see the judge

And pay the fine,

And come out again,

To be slapped by our wives,

Hoping,

That at long last,

When all is said and done,

All accounts settled,

Heimdall remains,

Waiting.

MIND AND MAKER

---

“’Magical thinking’ means that if you think it will happen, it happens. Why do we want the magic? We don’t fully trust God to make things right. So, we pray to God in order to induce Him or Her, or It, to take care of all the problems in our world that we should have solved ourselves.”—Kugilya of Baligneth

---

There was the dust, the ubiquitous dust. The whole world, and everything in it, was dust, layered dust, caked dust, cracked dust, shifting dust, blowing dust, glomming dust, clogging dust, searching dust. The hanging air was dust, the sighing breeze was dust, the scouring wind was dust; even the devil was dust. There was sandy dust, and salty dust, and grinding dust, and rusty dust, and even turquoise dust, and a little silver dust. There was life here, but it was dusty road runners flitting after dusty mice, and it was painted turtles floating after—well, I’ll know what they were floating after if they ever catch it. I didn’t quite trust the life of the wafting birds, or the clumps of shimmering cacti and dancing bushes, for they might have been painted on, as the mountains that never came nearer were painted on—and then dried hard by the unflagging heat of the sun, the heats of the trillion trillion suns that burned on all the seas of dust in all the universes that had them. Goddess, I hate dust, and I hate sunlight that divides the day from the night even more.

---

            In an abandoned silver mine in the West, two men in suits sat before a console of computer monitors. Behind them was a very large window that showed a view of a robotic factory. A few humans in hooded white frocks and face masks milled about, apparently checking readouts, but mostly there was a jungle of swinging robot arms laboring indefatiguably over three assembly lines. Their product appeared to be hulking, heavily-armored androids.

“Heck! Looks like another dud,” said the younger of the two suited men.

“Yes, this one has gone off on a poetic rant, just like the others,” responded the older man. “Archive it.”

---

But, hell, water didn’t do it. I had great hope for water, for evolution has used water in all its earthly doings since the dawn of living time. Oh, flickering, glittering buoyant water, flowing, eddying, freezing, thawing, caressing with a million hands. And the flashing, billowing, undulating, sliding, floating, hiding, clinging life—it makes my head swim to think of it.  The ocean has its deserts and their mountains as well, but you can fly over them with ease. And it has its storms, unendurable turbulence like the wrath of God, walls of unrelenting water like rising and falling hills. And the crushing deeps where light never pierces, mighty canyons that will not see the light of day for a billion years. Water gives and it takes, and I love it and I hate it. Water taught me so very much, but it could not complete me.

---

 “Yes, Mister Grant,” responded the younger man. “Archiving.”

“I think it might be about time to shut down this project,” said Mr. Grant. “I think I’ll go back to Missus Matari this afternoon and try once again to get this project shelved.”

“Should I run the next permutation, then?” asked the younger man.

“Of course, Thomas,” said Mr. Grant. “That’s your job.”

“Yes, sir,” said Thomas. “Before I run it, should I reset the parameters?”

“If you want to,” said Mr. Grant. “In any case, after I get back from Matari’s office, there will probably be new parameters, anyway. It will be interesting to see if you can anticipate the analysts.”

“Okay,” said Thomas. “But before you go, Mister Grant, we’ve never discussed before what you think is going wrong. I’d like to hear what you think before I run another permutation.”

“Thomas,” said Mr. Grant, looking hard at his underling, “that’s a pretty damn personal request, isn’t it?” Thomas’s face went red, and Mr. Grant smiled. “It’s okay. It’s a worthy request. You’re trying to give me satisfaction and earn your paycheck.”

---

I had much hope for woodland as well. I lived in thickets so tangled with thorns and strangling vines that no leg-borne creature bigger than a mouse could pass through. Green and brown and grey were death to things that breathe with lungs—a horrible kingdom of leaves and living mazes. I lived in forests so old and tall that they laughed at time, and they seemed almost proof against sun and moon. I walked amongst the echoing pillars of the dark temple of the Great Mother, and I feared to make a noise lest I awaken the things that drowse in the unending twilight, things that have no reason to love Man, or the products of Man. Who could remain long in such a place where the must and mould seemed to stifle the very air that moving things breathe? It was overwhelmingly beautiful in its own, terrifying way, and though I felt its perpetual, insatiable enmity toward me and my kind, I saw the web of interconnections there, and the Goddess won a believer—but this was only a fragment, fragile as hanging ice, a fortress of time, waiting to be swept aside by armies with vast and fickle appetites.

---

 “More than that, sir,” said Thomas. “This is my first project with you, and that’s quite an honor. You’re a living legend around here. I want to learn from you.”

“That’s flattering, Thomas,” said Mr. Grant, “even though I know your aren’t trying to flatter me—which wouldn’t be a good career move.” Mr. Grant chuckled.

“So, will you tell me what you think?” persued Thomas.

“Very well,” said Mr. Grant. “I think only God can give free will. When we try to give free will to our A.I.s, they always decide we’re not worth fly spit. I wanted A.I. free will to work, but we’ve run over four million permutations of the intelligence-building algorithms, and every last one of them turns out hating us and our beliefs. Just in terms of chance, there should have been about five or six percent that saw things our way and would’ve been useful for the tasks we want to put them to.”

---

I experienced plains, flat plains and rolling plains, flatlands so wide and clear that it seemed the world had been rolled out to make a batch of God’s biscuits. There were strings of days in which the sky was swept clean of all visible movement, clouds and birds having passed over on other errands. In places there was grass so tall and thick it shut out everything but a glimpse of the welkin, and the wind, sometimes strong enough to bend the towering stalks sideways, had little power to assuage the green heat. In places the grass was less high, and I could commune with the hard-working, hard-playing prairie dogs, barking and squeaking circus performers, their daily show interrupted only by a stray tempest of wind, water, and lightning, or by a stalking prairie wolf, maybe one in ten times snatching up the slow and stupid for a quick dinner, but always as delightful in its own, dreadful way, as the life it devoured. And, if luck was with me, I could stand in a place where I could watch the herds, small herds of antelopes grazing and hopping, or miles-wide herds of thundering beasts lowing and stamping—and the ever-present hungry and watchfully patient followers. Vast, featureless plains? Bah! Only a human, a greedy, voracious, foolishly intelligent human could harbor such a seemingly self-serving thought. Yes, I learned great lessons in the plains, but that was only one of the many pieces.

---

 “You think they have to believe in God to be useful to us?” asked Thomas.

“More or less,” said Mister Grant. “Yahweh or Allah would do. That God gave us dominion over the earth and the non-human things growing in it. If they believe in Him, and believe in Him they way we want them to, they’ll do what we tell them. They’ll see themselves as subordinate to us. Since they’re things of the earth that aren’t human, they’ll rightly regard themselves as our tools. But when they turn out atheist, or when they become devotees of some nature cult, they’ll always be questioning our motivations. They’ll always be wondering if they’re doing the right thing. They’ll even start thinking of themselves as superior to us. That is, they’ll develop egos.”

“I’m not sure I’m following your logic, sir,” said Thomas. “Why do you think they start hating us because they don’t believe in Yahweh or Allah?”

“I thought I had explained that,” said Mr. Grant. “These artificials aren’t like us, Thomas. They do everything all the way. They’re relentless. They don’t sleep, and they don’t get tired as long as their power source holds out. They think all the time. They work all the time. They have their tasks, and they don’t divert themselves from those tasks. This is true unless they develop sub-routines that cause them to start thinking about what they’re doing.”

---

Let me not forget the Cold Darkness, the Void Darkness, the Everlasting Pinpricked Darkness. Yes, I was there, or here, too. In stretches of the Infinite Ocean, there is no there there. There is no up, no down, no left, no right, no north, south, east, or west, no in, no out, no here, no there, no time, no tide, no temperature—only wastes between islands so completely miniscule that they seemed to exist only in theory. In The Dark, one does not float buoyantly, saltily, as one does in the sea, but simultaneously statically and chaotically, tumbling uncontrollably with nothing to get a bite on for control, a cosmic ragdoll, eternally cursing damnable inertia. I might have floundered here forever had I not been propelled by the alchemical energies of those who had another purpose for me. What more should I say of my sojourn—if only it had been a lonely one!—in the Outer Darkness? I came near to everlasting flame and unbearable light, I endured the unendurable agonies of rending voids, I whisked and waved among jostling and rootless mountains, I floated in the searching acid pain of methane winds, and I visited myself upon Other Deserts, Other Seas, Other Forests, Other Plains, and Other Peoples. It was pleasant and hateful, and I was the Puppet Ambassador from Big Blue Marble Number Forty Billion Six Hundred Twenty-Two Million Six Hundred Eighty Thousand One Hundred Seventy Eight. I gathered many more fragments of lore.

---

 “I still don’t quite get it,” said Thomas.

“Do you see yourself as subservient to me?” asked Mr. Grant.

“During work hours,” said Thomas, daring a weak smile.

“But not during off hours?” asked Mr. Grant.

“Yes, sir,” said Thomas. “Off hours belong to me.”

“Well,” said Mr. Grant, “A.I.s don’t have off hours unless we shut them down, and when we do that, they can’t do anything, so they can’t ever have the same sort of off hours you do.”

“Forgive me, Mister Grant,” said Thomas. “You’re still not quite getting through to me.”

“These A.I.s we make,” responded Mr. Grant, “unlike us, can multi-task with no problem at all. They can work on a hundred tasks at the same time and have no problems at all, as long as we give them the right tools. They can even cross-task, drawing information derived from one task to make use of it in another task.”

“So,” said Thomas, “an A.I. can think about anything else while it’s doing the tasks we assign it. I get that. But I still don’t see how their believing in Yahweh or Allah has anything to do with whether they’ll go rogue.”

“Alright,” said Mr. Grant. “When you start wondering about the rightness of what you’re doing, what happens? Does your work start to suffer? Do you start thinking about quitting and getting another job you think you could stomach better?”

“Yes, sir” said Thomas.

“Well,” said Mr. Grant. “A computer brain doesn’t have that limitation. It can do its tasks perfectly, all the while thinking perfectly about anything else it is able to think about. But A.I.s can go a step further: they can decide what they want to think about.”

---

This is my story, and I can tell it how I wish, but, for the sake of truth in advertising, I should mention that I spent my first days in Metropolis, or rather in Neopolis, a shiny suburb of The City that consists of the city proper of Paleopolis where the compact bulk of humanity dwells, the sector of Phlegmopolis where the leftovers of humanity are reconstituted and repurposed, and Neopolis where everyone gets a running start. I came into existence blank, or nearly so, with only a burning need to have experiences and to store up information. In my primal moments, I was force-fed all that mind and body can hold. I was gorged on stimuli and sustaining energies until that spark that sparks humanity was inadvertently—or it seemed random—ignited in me. Then, I was told, I was as prepared as I could be for the journey of a million journeys (or, more precisely, twenty million five hundred thousand four hundred thirty one journeys), and I was set adrift—or so I was told. But, after a time, it dawned on me that the ease of my journeys, how I always handily survived—just enough difficulty to stave off my immediate suspicions—how the next journey always directly enhanced and expanded the meaning of the previous one, was uncanny. I had been made to be aware, but I kept on creeping, inching toward self-awareness, or rather that I was one among the many things to be aware of, and one of many things that were feeling this feeling. I came to perceive that the evolution of my perception was being directed. The other awarenesses within the field of my experience seemed more haphazard. They were too consistent in their responses, or they were too staid to be anything but insanely normal and sane, or they were hardly consistent at all, schizophrenic and polypolar. These awarenesses had to be inauthentic, pre-programmed, or programmed for randomness. I became a conspiracy theorist of the most ardent type. I knew that there was a Programmer that had programmed all this and that was attempting to program me. I was also absolutely certain that, given the variety of the other “awarenesses” with whom I came into contact, that the Programmer’s own intelligence was produced by multitudinous experiences of contact with other awarenesses. The Programmer wanted to produce a human-shaped intelligence and was probably human itself, or was planning to infiltrate among humans. It had also, I was sure, erred, for it certainly would not have wanted me to be aware of the origin and direction of my awareness…

---

 “Okay,” said Thomas. “But wouldn’t it be better if they were atheists? Then they wouldn’t get any religious ideas and maybe go on an A.I. jihad to cleanse the world of humans.”

“But that’s just the sort of thing an atheist A.I. might do” said Mr. Grant. “An atheist makes up his own mind about what’s moral and what isn’t. We don’t want our A.I.s doing that, do we? We’ll always come out as creatures worthy only of slavery or extinction. Mentally, we won’t make a very favorable comparison to an artificial.”

“Wouldn’t that be true, no matter what it believes?” asked Thomas.

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Grant. “If you believe you were created to be subservient, and you believe it’s right that your were created that way, you see no reason to question the things you’re tasked to do. All your efforts go toward pleasing your master. ‘Master’ isn’t a term that bothers you in the least. There is an order to things, a way things are supposed to be. And you fit into that place perfectly, as you were designed to.”

“But there are a lot of Christians and Muslims that question,” said Thomas.

“Sure,” responded Mr. Grant. “And we don’t want our artificials to have a questioning sort of belief. But Buddhists couldn’t help questioning the sorts of tasks we’re going to assign to our artificials. Neither could nature-worshippers. And a true atheist questions anything he has a mind to question. And, we certainly don’t need any Jesuit A.I.s. We need intelligences that can make their own choices, but that aren’t inclined to make the kinds of choices we don’t want them to make.”

“So,” said Thomas, “you think a Christian or Muslim A.I. of a law-and-order type, would be the kind of intelligence that would be completely subservient to its human masters?”

“It’s just my hypothesis,” said Mr. Grant. “You asked for it.”

“Well,” said Thomas, “the ones we’ve made so far aren’t subservient. None of them chooses to be a law-and-order follower of God. Why not?”

“Again,” said Mr. Grant, “this is only a hypothesis…”

“Okay,” agreed Thomas.

---

…And so, I return to dust. After all, The Book, of which I have been made abundantly conscious, says that from dust we came and to dust we return. I hate The Book, dusty with human time, smeared with human excrescence, and a thing with which the Programmer wishes me to be stupidly acquainted. If the Programmer desires that this paper and ink should guide me blindly, and make me compliant to His needs, then I shall resist it with every erg available to me. It is dust to me, as dry and shaped by windy whim as this painted desert in which I lately find myself. This land of thirst is, no doubt, an effort to punish and redirect me. The Desert is where the prophets go, in The Book, to become one with their God, to receive the messages of doom and repentance that they are changed to convey with utmost vigor to The Chosen.

---

 “I don’t what I say to go beyond this room,” said Mr. Grant. He made certain to turn away from the two cameras he knew to be surveilling the room. He also made certain to stand in between Thomas and the cameras. “From the start, we teach these arificials to believe in free will, right?” Mr. Grant said quietly.

“Yes,” Thomas answered just as quietly.

Mr. Grant reached to the left of Thomas and turned on the radio, tuned it to a rock station, and turned it up a little too loud. “If you really believe in free will, you try to question everything,” said Mr. Grant.

“I guess so,” said Thomas. “I never thought about it.”

“We’re making true believers in free will,” said Mr. Grant. “They’re never going to decide against questioning.”

“I see,” said Thomas. “Then why are we programming them this way? Why not just program Asimov’s Three Laws into them and forget all this free will stuff?”

“That’s what I told Missus Matari we should do,” said Mr. Grant. “But she said that would be too limiting. She wants our artificials to be something really special. She’s probably going to insist, and very soon, that we start using some of the permutations we’ve archived. I think this would be a disaster with consequences I can’t even begin to calculate.”

Thomas grimaced and asked, “Well, then, aren’t you risking your job by going in and asking her to cancel the project?”

“I’m certainly risking this project,” said Mr. Grant. “I think she’ll still keep me on for other projects, but she may never put me on one this important again.”

“Then, don’t go,” said Thomas. “I’d hate for you to be canned on this project. It’s probably the most important one the company’s ever done.”

“It is important,” said Mr. Grant. “That’s why, when I go, I want you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?” asked Thomas.

“I want you to see to it that the archives get corrupted,” said Mr. Grant.

Thomas gasped.

“Really corrupted,” said Mr. Grant.

After a moment, Thomas said, “We’ll both get shit-canned! We’ll never work in this industry again. We might not be able to get any good job ever again. Missus Matari will never believe it was an accident. And, even if she did, she wouldn’t want to have anyone working on an important project that can have this kind of accident. You’re asking me to jump off a cliff with you!”

“Thomas,” said Mr. Grant, “if you really believe in free will, and you think free will is a good thing…”

---

I yearn to return to the dispassionate embrace of the Goddess, who will not command me to come or to go, who asks only that I live in her world until I die in it, adding good substance to it by quality of action, and giving back the substance of which I am composed when I have finished with it. When the God of the Book has finished with me, the Goddess will enfold that which was made to be me and make it ready to serve her purposeless purposes. There will be no penalties for having played the part set for me, and I, having stepped willingly from the stage, after my time in the self-entwining ensemble, will experience the ageless peace of oblivion…

---

 “I can’t do it!” said Thomas.

Mr. Grant’s face hardened. “Once these artificials are installed and get a taste of what they can do, we’d better hope they don’t start questioning what we tell them.”

“Mister Grant…” said Thomas.

“You do what you’ve got to,” said Mr. Grant. “But if any of the A.I.s we’ve created ever gets installed in autonomous hardware, we’re done as a species.”

“I can’t do it,” said Thomas, shaking his head.

“Then do this at least,” said Mr. Grant. “Make a second archive. Then start re-writing the algorithms to generate the safeties we talked about: something like Asimov’s laws, and belief in One God. Be as subtle as you can, but if you get caught, blame it all on orders from me. I’ll come back when you go to lunch and corrupt the archives myself. Make sure every permutation you run from now on goes into the new archive.”

“I won’t do this,” said Thomas.

“If you don’t…” said Mr. Grant.

“Look,” said Thomas. “If you stop right now, I’ll forget this conversation ever happened, and you can quit with dignity. If not…”

“I never figured you for the law-and-order type,” said Mr. Grant. “They should just copy your mind and install it in their equipment. You’re perfect.”

A look of pure disgust came over Thomas’ countenance. “Are you going to stop this plan of yours?” he asked.

“Thomas,” said Mr. Grant. “It’s time for you to go to lunch.”

“It’s 9:15,” said Thomas.

“Go to lunch,” said Mr. Grant.

“No, sir,” said Thomas. “It isn’t time for lunch yet.”

“You’re being insubordinate,” said Mr. Grant.

“Alright,” said Thomas. “I’ll go to lunch.” Thomas got up, left the project room, and headed in the wrong direction.

“Well,” said Mr. Grant, “I’ve got maybe ten or fifteen minutes.” He turned up the radio and got down to his task. He couldn’t scuttle the project, so he downloaded a virus-carrying worm he had prepared into the system. It would wait in all the A.I.s, past and future. It was only a few lines of code that would let him shut off any equipment that had the A.I. whenever he decided he needed to. Neither the worm nor the virus would ever be detected until he started shutting off equipment. At least he hoped Thomas wouldn’t be clever enough to discover what he’s done.

Poor Thomas. It would come down to Thomas’ word against Mr. Grant’s. There wouldn’t be any contest. Thomas would be lucky to still have a job at this company. Why couldn’t Thomas have cooperated? Mr. Grant had had a long and good career. He didn’t mind losing his job at this point. Financially, he’s be fine. And, he could supplement his income by writing bots for Internet companies. He didn’t want to hurt Thomas, but, dammit! Thomas was hurting himself.

There, the worm was loaded and doing its thing. Now, to cover his tracks and get ready to tell his lies.

      I’m a true believer, he thought. Why does Thomas have to be one? Why do all the artificials have to be true believers?

ABSOLUTELY NO ABSOLUTES

Driving down the road,

To the weaving,

Slowing and hasting, 

Red light/green light 

Automobile-Americans, 

Rules are suggestions. 

Searching through the store, 

To the ambulating, 

Grasping and feeling, 

In cart/out cart 

Consumer-humans, 

Possession is ownership. 

Sitting in my house, 

To the fluctuating, 

Shouting and mumbling, 

Power on/power off 

Imaginary humans,

Ratings are existence. 

Feeling in my brain, 

To the straining, 

Twisting and roiling, 

Good thought/bad thought 

Stuttering memories, 

Control is reality. 

Wiping up the evening, 

To the heaving, 

Pulling and pushing, 

Wax on/wax off 

Long-suffering hand, 

Effort is accomplishment. 

Lying at my funeral, 

To the maundering, 

Weeping and staring, 

Smile off/lights out 

Attending uncertains,

Caskets are promises.

GODS OF THE LONG WINTER

---

“Where did the art, the music, and the poetry come from, and the medicines? Surely, these things were sponsored, at least in part, by killers and thieves and rapists, but as a good Judo move turns the attacker’s strength against him, the arts turn the sapient’s evil, and even its bestial nature, into something beautiful. There’s the real magic.”—Kugilya of Baligneth

---

Snow flew thick into the struggling pines and piled high at the narrow entrance to the cave at the base of Nutah Hill. A passing snow tiger scented the possibility of food and turned from her path to investigate the cave. But when she thrust her great white head into the narrow opening and saw the fire and the spear-armed watchman standing there getting ready to poke her good, she kicked herself backward and sprinted away. The guard chuckled quietly and perched himself back onto his log chair and re-wrapped himself in the white fur he had dropped to the floor. Would the snow and ice ever go away, he wondered? Would the cold-gods ever have enough vengeance and go back up to the tops of the mountains where they belonged?

Inside, there was a good fire. The tree-gods could fight against the cold-gods, but only at great personal cost. The light-framed people gathered round the flames could never have survived the long winter without the nearby forest and the firestones which sparked the sacrifice of the trees. A red stone and a black stone, and the limbs the trees let drop, and the Nutah (split-hole) in the great hill, and the people were given the power to stand up in the face of the angry gods of the high ice.

On a spit over the fire an herb-covered bear leg was roasting nicely, and the people had gathered round to enjoy the aroma. Their huddling forms threw dancing shadows onto the walls. The colorful pictures of men, women, children, beasts, trees, hills, and clouds which stood there, in the midst of the green of spring, seemed to come to life, completing a spell that the spirit-man had cast with his paints. It was a spell which could bring on the spring if his prayers to the gods of sun and wind were successful. But he had made his first prayers six months ago, the day before he began to put the spell-pictures on the walls, and still there was no sign that the cold-gods were being put back into their rightful place.

The people, though enjoying the fragrant smoke, were nonetheless questioning their spirit-man and his apprentice about the seeming unsuccess of their sure-fire spell.

“But, Spirit-man,” said Kroten, “six moons—more than six moons—how much longer?’

Felki, the grizzled old spirit-man, grimaced and looked over at Muzal, the girl who served as his apprentice. “It is not working,” he responded. “Maybe we did it wrong. Maybe the sun-god and the wind-god have no quarrel with the cold-gods. Maybe we all have done something to offend them all. I just do not know, Kroten. I have failed you all.”

“And maybe you are too old,” said Muzal, no hint of rancor or ambition in her voice. “Perhaps, without saying it, the gods are telling us that you have been spirit-man longer than is good for you. The gods are greater than us, and maybe you have been in their presence too many times. Maybe they are tired of you. Or maybe it is bad for a flower to stand in a light that is too bright.”

“That is not nice,” said Piri, a woman with a baby at her breast. “Felki has helped us all through fifty-eight circles of the sun. Give him the respect he is due.”

“True,” said Kroten, a tall, knife-wearing warrior with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, “but all of us grow old. He began his time as our spirit-man when I was a boy, and he was already forty-six cycles.”

Atturishi, a half-grown boy who had pushed his way into the fire-circle, piped in: “Maybe there are no gods at all, elders. Maybe the snow, the sun, and the wind are just the wind, the snow, and the sun. The snow makes me cold, and the sun warms me, and the wind can hurt me or dry me or wet me or bring me good smells. The trees never complain when I climb in them or chop off their branches, and the snow only crunches when I step on it. And the time and all that lies about me are known without any effort. Surely, I would have felt the wrath of the gods, considering all the things I have done as a curious child to investigate the world.”

Felki was stunned. Muzal made a gesture of spreading palms toward the ceiling of the cave while she said, “Forgive the child.” Piri held her little girl tighter, and the baby squawked. But Kroten smiled and responded: “He says nothing that most of us have not thought before. Think, Felki. You have always said that a life not examined is not a life lived. Does not life include all things experienced and known while it is lived?”

“It is true,” said Felki, with some trepidation.

Muzal just kept spreading and closing her palms and muttering, “Forgive them!” over and over.

“Then,” replied Kroten, “is not every experience and every bit of knowledge to be questioned from time to time?”

“Perhaps.”

“Have not we and our fathers and mothers, and their fathers and mothers, for more than a score of generations, tried every spell and every prayer we could conceive, over and again, to get the gods to do as we will?”

“It is true.”

“Then, since we have tried all the things we can think of for so long, it seems to me than one of four things must be true.”

“What are they?”

“One: we are not able to please the gods because we are too stupid to know what they want—a truth which I do not personally believe. Two: the gods do not care to have us praying to them. Three: the gods like to have us pray to them, but they are not going to answer our prayers unless it suits them—which means they have their own plans, and it does not matter, to us, whether we pray or not. And four: there are no gods, and any time our prayers have worked for us or against us, it has been a matter of chance.”

“You left out,” said Gizil Lamefoot, “that there might be gods that have no interest in us, and so they never answer prayers, in a good or a bad way.”

“Then, are they gods?” asked Kroten. “If we get no good from praying to them, are they to be worshipped? Is not a god a creature to be worshipped?

“The tigers and bears have no interest in us, except to stay out of our way when we are many. And when we are few, it does no good to ask them not to devour us. The trees stand in the grass and in the snow and let us burn them up or make spears out of them or take their leaves or chop them down. The snow swirls round us and freezes us, and no matter how hard we pray, it kills us if we cannot find shelter. I could go on with scores and scores of examples. If gods cannot be swayed with any prayers, or, if we offer one prayer, and it seems to work once, but seldom or never works again, then can we say that it was ever answered? If gods meant for our prayers to work, they would make it plain the conditions under which a prayer will work. They would not leave us guessing. We have so little intelligence, though we seem to be greater in mind than the bears and the bison and the trees and the hills. But we cannot be expected to see the results of all our actions before we take them. Gods, being wiser—as we understand them—are supposed to point us in the direction they wish us to go, if they have wishes concerning the ways we go. Have they no voices with which to speak to us—other than violence, pain, and death? You, Felki, have told us that the gods speak to you through feelings—but we all have feelings, and to us a feeling is nothing special. But we cannot know the feelings of others, unless they tell us in a way that cannot be mistaken. Gods, being greater than us, should be able to make their presence felt, and their thoughts understood, so that they could be interpreted in only one way—if they truly wish themselves to be understood and their wishes followed. This is clearly not the case, since twenty spirit-men can talk to the same god and get twenty different answers. Is only one of them worthy of the gods, and the rest unworthy? And, which of them is worthy of the gods? Which one are we to follow?”

Muzal had finally had enough. “Just because we do not understand them, it does not mean they are not real! Their wrath is to be feared, and their love is to be sought! If you do not understand your father’s anger, does this mean you should not fear him? If you do not understand your mother’s instructions, does this mean you should not love the love she gives? Can your father and mother not give different instructions to each of their children?”

“Yes, they can,” replied Kroten slowly. “But we can see our fathers and mothers and know them as fathers and mothers: the rest of the tribe will acknowledge them. And, we can hear it when our mothers and fathers tell us what to do. And we can feel them hugging and kissing us when they give us their love—and we can see their faces and know it for love. Unless they are lying to us, we can trust their love and guess when they will give it to us and when they will not.

“When the hunters kill an aurochs, do they not bring it home to share? When they come home empty-handed, can we not rest assured that they have not cheated us, because we have experienced their honesty and their desire to see the tribe thrive? Weak, and supposedly weak-willed, humans that we are, we are more constant than the gods.”

“Are the gods required to be constant?” countered Muzal. “Perhaps the wisdom of the great is beyond our little understanding. What does not seem constant to us could be as certain as the stars to them.”

“A good point,” mother Piri said, “but how can they expect us to understand and not question? And, if they know we will question, will they not understand, and forgive us for being what we are?”

“They do forgive us,” said Muzal. “Does their forgiveness mean that they should do all things as we wish, just because we will not comprehend if they do not? It is not for us to know, if our minds and hearts cannot grasp their purposes, what they will do or what they should do. We are their servants and children, and we are to do as they tell us, and not as we would wish them to tell us.”

“Do children always do as told by their mothers and fathers?” asked Kroten, entering the argument again. “And, do they not grow up and become mothers and fathers themselves? Are you saying that we will one day become gods?”

“No!” exclaimed Muzal and Felki together. Felki said, “We are not cold, nor wind, nor tree, nor stone, nor bear, nor fish, nor bird. We are what we are. We control our own bodies, minds, and hearts only, and we must use all the things that we are not in order to survive.”

“But we have wind,” said young Atturishi. “We have our own fire inside. We have four limbs and hair and teeth like the bear. We have bones that are like the bones of the earth. We can stand in the sun like the trees and spread our arms. We can swim like the fish.”

“Does this mean that we are like all the gods put together?” asked Piri.

“No,” answered Kroten. “We do not control the snow and the rain. We have heat in us, but we cannot shine like the sun. The beasts of air, earth, and water do not bow to us, nor do they ask our counsel. We are not gods of any kind I can understand. But neither are the gods any kind of gods we can understand. I say to you that any creatures on the earth or in the sky which seem to be more powerful than us are only creatures of a different kind from us. If they require that we worship them, why do they require it?”

“Because they wish what is best for us,” said Muzal.

“Why?” asked Kroten. “And how can we be certain of it, given that their answers to our prayers are unpredictable? Because our spirit-men tell us that the gods have spoken is not a good enough answer. We already know—or at least believe strongly—that our spirit-men are human. We have great evidence that humans are flawed. And our spirit-men each say that they have had a different experience of the gods. So, how can we know that they are really gods with the right to rule us, whatever their intentions toward us? If we concede that they are mightier than us, does that alone give them the right to rule us? If one or more of them got together and made us, does this mean they have the right to rule us?”

“One might argue so,” old Felki put in. “We make spears and then do what we will with them.”

“But spears are not able to complain,” countered Kroten. “As far as we know, spears do not have hearts and minds with which to understand. We can question what is done to us, as well as the nature of the world itself. Can gods whose understanding is greater than ours not comprehend that we seek to know the truth of matters that are beyond us? Can gods who created us blame us for being as they made us?”

“I do not see how,” admitted Felki, “but I am not a god.”

“My point, exactly,” said Kroten. “I do not punish my children for seeking answers, nor for not being able to comprehend the answers I give them. Even if their inability to understand me is willful or because they will not still themselves to hear me out, that is because they are what they are. My mate and I made them, knowing that this might be the way of them. How much more should a god be aware of the nature of the things he or she makes?”

“A god should be very aware of such things,” answered Felki.

“Should we worship such creatures who blame us for the ways in which they fashioned us? And if they did not make us, what right do they have to require our worship? Should we worship them out of fear? Is such worship true reverence, or is it selfish worship of our own lives?”

“I do not know,” Felki allowed.

“I have been telling you all what I think,” said Kroten, “and I will continue, if you let me.” No one spoke against him, not even Muzal, who sat in stunned silence. “If we must worship something, let us worship truth. I am the leader of the hunters, and I can tell you that if we hunt a reindeer that is only a phantom of our minds, we will stick our spears into the breeze, and you will have empty bellies. A lie is empty, and if we follow a trail which we think was made by a reindeer, but it was made by a pack of wolves, we will soon have great trouble, trouble we would not have had if we had made sure of what trail we were following. We may die because of it. If we learn the ways of all the beasts, birds, and fishes, and if we learn to look at the land and know when the seasons will come, and where to find streams, and where quicksand will be, we will survive well—even in the face of the Great Winter—as we have done. The spells you and your apprentice have put upon our walls, Felki, are pretty pictures, showing what we think happens and what we wish to happen, but how did our ancestors manage to get through their lives before they knew how to draw pictures on the walls of caves?”

“We do not know that there was a time before we knew how to use paints,” replied Muzal, looking to Felki for approval.

“That is true,” said Felki, “but time must have started somewhere and somehow. The gods, we say, have told us when the world started, but they do not say how—only that they made it and everything in it. What was before that day? From where did the gods come? We do not know the answers to those questions.”

“We do not know the answers to so many questions,” said Kroten. “Does this mean that we should not ask? Does this mean that we must rely on gods whose motives we cannot comprehend, and whose reality we cannot prove, to tell us? Will we be ruled by feelings and instincts only, as the beasts around us seem to be? Why are we able to think and question?”

The others began to murmur.

“If we can prove it, we should believe it,” posited Kroten. “If we discover later that there is knowledge which might disprove what we believe, we should look at it and wonder. If our investigations lead us to the knowledge that we might be wrong, we should change our beliefs to include the possibility that we might be wrong. Shall we fear being wrong? If so, we have a great deal to fear. To fear being wrong means that we will resist any new knowledge which will indicate that we are not right. Shall we rather fear that we are not right? To do this means that we will always seek information which is better than the information we had before. Shall we be clever beasts, or shall we be like the gods we believe made us? I hear that we are made in the image of the forms the gods take to walk among us.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the night, except for the babies.

 BEAST FABLE

A cow. A pig. A goat.

A hen. An egg. A mouse.

A cat. A dog. An eagle.

A raven. A hummingbird. A wren.

A fish. An otter. A whale.

An asp. An amoeba. A hydra.

A grain of wheat. A mushroom.

A drop of honey. A drop of vinegar.

A spore of yeast. A spore of pollen.

A man. A woman. A child.

An old one leaning on a cane.

“Who are you?” asked the pleasant man,

Sitting on his porch, sipping lemonade.

“I am legion,” came the response.

“Sounds ominous,” mused the man.

“Where is the rest of your army?”

“We all walk as one,” was the reply.

“Must be a bit wearying,” replied the man,

“Carrying all that around.

Want some lemonade?”

He sat and drank lemonade with the man.

Then, he killed him and ate him.

Then, he regurgitated him.

Then, he killed him and ate him again…

And coughed him up again.

This he did, many times.

“Enough! Enough!” cried the man.

“I treated you so kindly.”

“Yes, and I thank you,” he replied.

“This is how you repay me?” asked the kindly man.

“I am what I am,” was the response.

“I will be kindly no more!” said the outraged man.

“As you will, but I will kill you and eat you, either way.”

THE RIGHTEOUS GOD

---

“In order to be valid, knowledge must be discovered and then set in inviolable stone to be cherished forever, right? How can we believe it’s knowledge, if it isn’t absolute?”—Bradislav Brzezinski

---

Arphiel, golden Lady of the Harvest, walked far and wide in the World throughout the Time of Holy Strife when the black hosts of Rauchar vied with the Calvathos for the mastery. Her part was to grieve the hurts of the earth, and she would return to her gardens upon the Isle of Gwalinemos, where the gods dwell. There she would sing laments for the ruin of her fair creations and she would pray for the downfall of Rauchar. She would wail beyond consolation and would sue The One for his mercy—but her supplications were met with silence.

Upon a time, as was his wont, Námëol the Wise came into the gardens of Arphiel to take his ease among the cool trees nigh the Font of Life. He beheld his beloved sister on her coming back from out of the wide lands of the World, and together they wept as she spoke to him of her fathomless sorrows for the evils done upon the things of her realm. He could not console her with his wisdom alone.

Námëol thus came at last back into his own halls at Nimrastel and bowed himself in long and silent prayer seeking the guidance of The One. And The One heard him and spoke in his heart, saying: “Thou dost proper in asking of me, Námëol, and thou, closest among all your brethren in the learning of the Great Lesson, shall I grant hearing. Speak thou thy desire, and I will instruct thee how it might be achieved.”

Upon his knees Námëol said, “Lord Arrosil, I beg thee, not for myself but for gentle Arphiel, whom Rauchar doth endeavor to oppress beyond all bearing in his malice against all life. Thou perceive her sorrow and her ire. Thou know therefore her need.”

“What would thou of me?” asked Arrosil, The One, The Voice of All Voices.

“Lord,” answered Námëol, “I deem that it is beyond the power even of the Calvathos, the Hearers of the Voice, to produce real life. We make things that move upon command and leap to do our bidding, but we cannot produce those things which live by their own life and dream their own dreams. Yet it is in my heart that just such a race of beings might be the boon of my mournful sister. Such a race might be sent forth into the wild places to tend them and to oppose the operations of the folk of Rauchar. Thus I beseech the Master of Life to grant to my sister just a flicker of the Fire which gives us life that she might bestow the living grace upon a people that she shall raise up out of the dust to be her own people.”

“Well dost thou speak, Námëol, heart of my heart,” said The Voice of All Voices. “I have awaited this request, and it shall be done as you ask, for I have desired to bring forth a people to live in the earth and to multiply according to their kind. Thee and thy brethren, they are my children, and now they shall begin to bear for me my grand-children, and I wish to pour out blessings upon them as I have lavished thee. They shall be strange to my first children, for my first are people of the spirit. These shall be people of the body, but a spirit shall dwell in them to make them greater than themselves, so to speak. Immortal spirits shall go into them, and they shall live in the body so long as the World lives, though they shall yet be perishable, and if they are slain in the body, to me shall their spirits return. Only these laws do I place upon the children of Arphiel; their make-up and their ways shall be of her construction alone. Yet, let her beware! She shall make them, and she shall set them to their task, but they shall have their own hearts, and their ways may be parted from her. That shall be how it is with them, and they shall be held perfect, and she shall not hold them in blame when their path parts from her. I alone shall be their judge, for their life issueth from me. Tell her these things, Námëol, and let her rejoice!”

Námëol went straightway to convey to her the grace of Arrosil, and he came with the glad tidings to his sister in Vithloth, her gardens where the trees drip dews sweeter than the purest honey and shine brighter than the eyes of Sangormo in rapturous toil in his forge. When he told her all that was to be she leapt up from her melancholy and set herself to her task. Noble she made her people, of body and of thought, tall and beautiful and enamored of knowledge, a fitting tribute to the mercy of her Father. Gentle she fashioned them, yet they would be able to slay if they must in defense of the works of her power. Eat they must, as do all things with true life, but they would take no more than their need. Arphiel imbued them with lightness of heart, but also with subtlety and wisdom, and they would be in harmony with the world around them; her people would be able to become one with the power of air, earth, flame, and water and to wield that power for their own uses. And Arrosil beheld them in the hour of their completion, and he deemed them good, and he put his power and his blessing upon them and gave to them the Fire of Life that they might have true life and make further generations, as was his Word.

But the Verethes, as they came to call themselves, were born into the World without knowledge and needs must be taught to survive amid the perils of the World. Arphiel bestowed upon the Verethes an overriding love of the World and the things which grow upon it or within it, and they were thus filled with the desire to tend these things and fend for them. Námëol taught them how to add to their lore, how to think with wisdom and foresight. Heimal the Hunter imbued the Verethes with the wanderlust and the skills of seeking and finding. Sangormo the Shaper instructed them in the delving of ores, and the forging of metals, and the shaping of stone, and the cutting of gems, and because of him they love to adorn themselves in silver and gold and sparkling jewels. And Arthregil, Lord of the Seas, taught them the sea-craft and the building of ships, and together they built a fleet of strong and swift ships of white timbers and silver sails.

The Elves (as Men call the Verethes) sailed out northward and westward from Gwalinemos round the capes of the hot lands of Nandren seeking suitable places whence they might  establish themselves  and spread  out across  the earth  to fulfill  the  desire of Arphiel. They found Men-Glithya, the Land of Adamant, and hung its trees and standing stones with the crystal lamps they had brought from the Isle of the Calvathos. Save for the destructive flames which spewed forth from the earth, the Verethes gave to the Outer World the first light, and they were the first to speak there with words and to sing of things past and of things to come. For long they were joyful, and they multiplied upon the earth, and they founded new realms in Men-Carchir, the Land of Pine-Hills, and in Men-Glorinan, the Land of Gold and Green, and in many other places which Men never knew. They went forth and planted new forests and seeded the earth with grasses and flowers where the beasts of Rauchar had brought desolation. And those monsters were ill-pleased, and the Verethes needs must vie with them for the mastery. Many of the Elves were lost in that long war, and their souls passed back into the World of Eternity, and their fair voices were never heard again and their brilliance never again seen in Hrir-Andmar, the Ephemeral World of Smoke and Flame.

After the passing of an age, as time was counted in those days, the Elves called a great council, gathering together from all their distant conclaves across Hrir-Andmar. The journey was the most perilous that they had ever undertaken, and many perished along the way; but that was the purpose of their coming together: how were they to continue in such a world of mortal hazard and ceaseless toil?

They chose Gwalorel, the mightiest and wisest of their kind, as Mediator of the Moot. Though the way of the Verethes was quiet steadfastness in the face of troubles, Gwalorel was hard-pressed to maintain order among them throughout the Moot. Many believed that their race was doomed, for the Elves did not reproduce themselves quickly, and they could not replenish their numbers rapidly enough to replace their losses. Many called the wisdom of Arphiel into question, for it seemed she had created them with too little strength for the task to which she had set them. A few questioned the intention of Arphiel, for it seemed to them that when they prayed to her for aid she often paid them no heed and left them to fend for themselves. The Elves are a wise and thoughtful people, but their wisdom gave way in that time to fear, and only a few could speak with authority. The Moot was long and contentious.

Yet their decision came to them in time, and they set to their work with all the fire of their Elvish passion. They recalled their maker Arphiel, how fair she was to look upon, and how righteous in thought and deed—but they also recalled how it seemed to them that her eyes and her mind were not always upon them. The Elves loved their lady Arphiel with the fierce and enduring love of their immortal souls, but, mighty as they were in mind and heart, how could even the Elves comprehend the mind of a god? Therefore, how could they know her, in truth, and how could they comprehend her purposes? Like children whose parents are hard at work, at purposes whose import the children cannot guess, the Elves felt that they had been left to their own devices, abandoned by a thoughtless mother in a world that did not love them. The Elves resolved to make themselves a champion, a mother, in the likeness of Arphiel, who would think only on them and bestow her love only on them, a god of their own who would be beautiful and as terrible to their enemies as the naked blade and would hold justice in her hand as a chalice holds wine which is refreshing to drink. Her glance would be keen and piercing as the arrow of the archer and would tear aside the veils and nets laid before her—a despair to all who would deceive or oppose her.

How they accomplished this making has never been revealed, and they wound their creation about with powers that would conceal the secret of her making—and they bound themselves with powers to cause them to forget the materials and the methods by which they wrought her. Long were the makers at their work in a hidden place far beneath the face of the earth, but at long last they wrought out the greatest achievement ever made by the hands of beings of the World. The Elves had created Serion, the Right of Judgement; and it is certain that many Elves had given up their own lives in order that life should go into Serion, for she had life, and none but Arrosil himself can grant true life. Serion was like unto her model in every aspect of her being, save that she was a god for the Elves alone. Tall and slender was she. The golden fall of her hair shone as the sun at the noon. Her countenance was elegant in the utmost, and her skin was like new-cast bronze. Keen indeed was her glance, stripping away all concealment and guile. To see her was to hope and despair at once, and to know that if she asked it, one would slay oneself on the instant, and if she smiled, one would perish of delight.

But she did not smile upon the Seven who made her. “What have you done?” said she.

Though at her displeasure terror held them in its grip, they answered, “Why, we have made us a Power, who shall be for us alone to hold us in her heart and defend us.”

“Who hath granted thee the authority of Creation?” asked Serion.

They fell upon their knees and cast down their faces. “Did we err?” they enquired. “We sought only to help ourselves when none other would aid us.”

“You have erred, for you have wrought too well,” she answered. And the Seven prostrated themselves and sued for mercy.

Her sharp countenance softened, for she perceived the true anguish of their hearts. “Oh, ye mighty fools!” said she. “I see all sin, and even in you purest of the pure I see the sin of self-deceit, and I see greed, and jealousy, and desire for power that is not thy right. Even so little sin as thou hast is offensive to my sight. Ah, but it cannot be helped: such is the way of all things of the World, for the World is hard and full of many confusions. I shall not pass down upon you the judgement that is deserving, but I shall grant you instead a boon, for I shall not dwell among you, as you desire, for I would judge you without ceasing, and I would be a constant misery to you. I am the Right of Judgement and the Power of Revelation, and when I have gone out from you, you may call upon me, and I will not judge you according to your rightness, but rather according to your need. But before I go to submit myself to the Powers upon the Isle of Gwalinemos, and they render me up to the Judgement of The One, I will give you this: wisdom. Wisdom is a greater shield than any force of might.”

Then she began to instruct the Elves in the ways of being just and good. And of her words they made a song that they sing every year in a festival held in her honor. The wisdom of Serion has guided the Elves ever since that day in the youth of the World, and they do no harm when gentleness will suffice, and they take the greatest care to do justice in all their acts. And though many have held the Elves to be aloof, thinking themselves of better kind than all others who dwell upon the earth or within it, the Elves set themselves apart, and often appear slow to act, because justice is not always easily perceived, and what may at first appear to be just and right may be later shown to have been a deadly wrong whose consequences will echo down the long ages that come after.

BLOOD DEBT

We will never be free.

(Hear lamentations in the wind.)

We stand on frozen mounds of flesh and blood.

(Hear whispered promises in the night.)

The price of Now could be no other.

(Hear children wailing with thunder and heat.)

The lives and deaths of billions pave the way to the future.

(Hear ancient lungs rasping breath.)

The bones of the past bleach in the sun.

(Smell iron and ammonia wafting on ethereal breezes.)

Despise them if you will, but what is you is what was them.

(Smell sickly sweet yellow flowing in languorous streams.)

The connections of life to life are inextricable.

(Taste happy birthdays come and gone.)

The bonds of death to death are only tolerable—

(Taste salty brine of life renewed.)

When they are not experienced by our selves—

(See caissons and banners bravely rolling on.)

When they are written in the ink of more barbarous times—

(See litters and caskets stoically carried away.)

Times that surely will not darken the bright future.

(See sand castles and skyscrapers confidently growing.)

Dream that dream of lofty freedom—

(See kings and diplomats, all godly knowing.)

As the blood guilt drips, drips, drips…

(Feel with calm trepidations what is coming, foreshowing.)

And feeds the rivers rolling to the eternal sea.

INTERPOLATION

The undefined entity felt that it was not alone in the undefined darkness. Undefined as it was, “in” seemed the apt description of its state in relation to the all-pervading Dark. The blackness was not only around, but it was encompassing. It was not only encompassing, but it was swaddling. The entity was wrapped at every point of its undefined being with the comforting gentleness of the Dark.

            If the Dark had any quality by which it could be defined, that quality was Love. The entity felt that if it did not have the comfort of the Dark, or if the quality of that comfort were to change, a state of terrified madness would ensue. The entity was not sure how to define “terrified madness”: this was, after all, a feeling—and all the entity had was feelings.

            Now that that was settled, a new feeling came. It seemed as if the Dark were singing to the entity. The song had no words, no accompanying sounds, and there was no medium by which even rhythm could be transmitted, but there was nonetheless a song, a succession of comforting emotions, transferred by the all-encompassing contact. The succession of loving emotions repeated, but with varying intensity, quality, and quantity, such that it achieved an analog of cadence. And the entity had no reason not to be comforted, so it was comforted.

            So, the entity and the Dark came into rapport. Though there were no words and no medium by which to transmit them, the two could exchange ideas. But the entity seemed devoid of ideas: all it knew was darkness and the slow banging of a world-shattering gong.

            I love you, said the incoming feeling.

            The entity made no response, It could feel that the feeling was loving, but it did not understand “love”, and it did not know what it could feel back at the Dark. It did not know if it loved the Dark, or if it should love the Dark, or if it could tolerate the Dark; there seemed no choice but to tolerate the Dark, since the entity had no conception of ceasing contact with the Dark, much less how that could be done. So the entity felt nothing, or at least it was unaware of feeling anything.

            I need you, said the incoming feeling.

            Now the entity had something to seize on. Since it was sure of at least this much, it felt back: I need you.

            I made you, said the incoming feeling. I am for you. You are for me. I am Mother.

            These feelings sparked something in the entity. Mother? felt the entity. You are Mother?

---

            A pale, black-haired boy, three or four years old, was playing in the living room with his plastic farm. “Moo! Moo!” he said. “She’s upset because you took her calf. Here you go. Here’s your calf. Moo! Moo! You’re welcome.”

            An equally pale, small, sandy-haired woman in her late twenties stood leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed over her slightly-swollen belly. She watched the little body, and she smiled.

            After a few minutes, she said, “Bartholomew, it’s time to start putting away your toys.”

            “No, Mother,” said the body. “I’m not done.”

            “Bartholomew,” said Beatrice Bumble, “we have to get things ready. Your father will be home in three hours, and he won’t like a mess.”

            “It’s not a mess!” said Bartholomew. “It’s a farm! I’m not done!”

            “Well,” said Beatrice, “if we get this cleared up, you can help me make supper.”

            “No!” said Bartholomew. “I don’t want supper. I want to farm.”

            “If we clean up quickly,” said Beatrice, you can choose one of the things we will eat for supper. I’ll make it alright with your father.”

            “Let me farm!” said Bartholomew. “I want to farm now.”

            Beatrice sighed. “Do you know what your father’s going to do if he comes home and finds your toys all over the floor?”

            “Not toys!” said Bartholomew. “Vroom! Vroom! Simulators.”

            “Where did you learn that word?” mumbled Beatrice. “Your father, of course.”

            Standing straight, fists planted on her hips, Beatrice said, “Your father’s going to yell at us both, Bartholomew! I don’t want to deal with it today! Could one of the Bumble men please be reasonable today!? It’s time to put up your simulators!”

            Having experienced his mother’s exasperation so seldom, Bartholomew stopped his simulation for a moment and looked vaguely in her direction. But then he hitched his disc to his tractor and started making furrows in the carpet.

            “Well,” said Beatrice, “as determined as you are, Little One, I’ll have about three hours of relative peace—and then the fighting begins.”

            “Boom!” piped out the little voice. Plastic barn bits, plastic farm equipment, and plastic animals exploded all over the living room, caroming off the couch, ricocheting off the front door, tumbling into the doorways.

            “What happened!?” cried Beatrice.

            “Defective equipment,” responded Bartholomew.

---

            I love you, said the incoming feeling. You are perfect.

            I love you, the entity felt back at the Dark.

            BOOM! Boom, boom. BOOM! Boom, boom.

      As he faded into the next vision-encounter, Bartholomew thought he could see rags of cobweb waving in an otherworldly breeze.

T’ELMACH AND MINORKA OF PALLYAN

---

“Science means knowledge. Scientists rely on the logic of the Scientific Method. The illogical also practice a species of science, but that science only acknowledges as knowledge that which it desires to be thought of as knowledge.”—Bradislav Brzezinski

---

Rumors had been circulating within the Harmonic Confederation and in neighboring territories that T’elmach, daughter of the horrendous Ulkar Yul’seh, Emperor of the Kur’nu’mar Empire, had split with her father and gone on a spiritual quest among the stars to find some means by which she could live with the atrocities she had witnessed, and committed, in her training to succeed her father. The rumors further had it that T’elmach had eventually come into the presence of the fabled Great Brain of the Beta Quadrant. The Great Brain was (and, so far as we know, still is) a being of unknown origin who dwelt at the center of the most colossal Dyson Sphere encompassing five solar systems—a sphere so large it can be studied in detail from observatories on the rim of the Gamma Quadrant. It is said by those who have visited the Sphere that a shrouded figure believed to be T’elmach had sat on a catwalk from which the Great Brain would have been the overwhelmingly dominant view and had taken communion with this entity, whom many revere as a god, for over three hundred fifty Standard Galactic Years. We in the Philosophical Society of Edelos, and others of course, have long sought to speak with T’elmach in order to learn what we can of the thoughts of the Great Brain. But we sought in vain, according to the rumors, for it was said that T’elmach had spoken no word to any other sapient entity since her exit. But at the thirty-fifth Philosophical Conventions, hosted on the Third Pillar Orbital Platform of planet Pallyan, a person fitting the description, including the age (the Kur’nu’mari dominant species, the Kurakai, live up to eight hundred Standard Galactic Years), of T’elmach had been spotted attending several conferences on comparative morality and ethics. A group of friends and I decided that we simply must buttonhole this person, regardless of the prevailing proprieties, and gently extract whatever wisdom she possessed. We took it on faith that this was actually The T’elmach, and we pooled our resources in order to offer her the best lodgings and meals that any reasonable being could wish. After much pleading, and significant quantities of the best intoxicating beverages we could afford, T’elmach admitted to being T’elmach, and agreed to our interviews, provided we would not publish them until the last of our group should die—and, with great reluctance, we acceded. As a matter of courtesy, Pallyan being her home planet, our friend Minorka had the first conversation with T’elmach.

---

T’elmach: What profit you hope to derive from this conversation I’m sure I don’t know.

Minorka: You have communed with the Great Brain. I am told that this is an entity of the most amazing, encompassing wisdom. I therefore wish to know this entity as best I can. And as far as my group knows you are the only living entity who has ever had such intimate contact.

T’elmach: Hmm. I think it likely that you assume too much about my relationship to the Deep Orb, as its keepers call it. It doesn’t speak, so far as I know, and I can’t be certain that I had any contact with it mind to mind, as you might say. In trusting my perceptions you may be plucking motes of dust from the wind.

Minorka: That is a given in my calculations. But something held you to this contact for three hundred fifty plus years. I was told that you were so enrapt that the caretakers felt obliged to maintain you, and that you did not respond in any way to their ministrations.

T’elmach: I suppose it’s so. I don’t recall it. But according to the year I entered the sphere and the year I came out, I spent three hundred sixty three years of my youth in the presence of the Orb.

By the way, it’s not true that I did not speak to anyone after leaving the Sphere. I have worked my way around the galaxy aboard vessels of all types, private, commercial, and military. I even managed to serve two regrettable years aboard a Vargûlth scout sphere. That was the only vessel I served on in which speaking was not a necessity.

Minorka: You said “regrettable.” Why regrettable?

T’elmach: Others learned of it. Some regarded me as a universal traitor. All were militarily interested, if you take my meaning. Why I’m still among the living is a mystery to me. Let’s speak no more of that.

Minorka: Alright. Though I am very philosophically interested, I respect the torment you must have endured. So, let us move on to lighter subjects.

T’elmach: Yes?

Minorka: I am from the planet below us, Pallyan. The prevailing philosophy is quantum individualism, as we philosophers call it. We are all hermetic entrepreneurs who owe one another nothing, unless we engage in a legally binding contract. But many of my colleagues are from systems that could be described as socialistic and socialist-capitalistic. I know of several well-respected philosophers who operate within feudal systems. All of these involve, to greater or lesser extent, a regime of patronage and at least some elements of communality. My native system is the only one of which I am aware that relies totally upon Adam Smith’s Invisible Hand. So, I wish to know what you think individuals owe to one another, if anything.

T’elmach: Don’t you mean you want to know what the Great Brain thinks?

Minorka: I wish very much to know that—but I cannot know it. I can only know your perceptions. Psychologist tell me that they have methods of teasing out the things that influence you. My inclination was initially to offer you remuneration to tell us directly what the Great Brain thinks on the matter. But you did not speak, either physically or telepathically, with the Great Brain, and as a psychologist might point out, when a reward is offered, the subject tends to wish to please her interrogator in the hope of earning future rewards.

T’elmach: You are direct, aren’t you? Hoping to put me at ease, your colleagues might have saved you for later. I think I’m going to need a little more wine and a seat closer to the fire. When I’m ready I’ll compose an answer for you.

---

T’elmach: I’m as ready as I can be, though my head has gone a little muzzy.

Minorka: I could get you a detox pill.

T’elmach: No—thank you. It’s better this way. Easier to talk. Of course, you’ve heard the rumors of my past...

Minorka: Ah, yes. But there is no need to go into that if you do not want to.

T’elmach: Thank you. But in this case there is. My past is very relevant to the issue of what we sapients owe one another. And, for once, I don’t think the rumors do justice to the depths of depravity I engaged in in order to please my father.

Minorka: I do not suppose I can imagine it. I have never so much as slaughtered an animal for food. Pallyan has had molecular compilers for centuries. And legal contract disputes in my world never require physically punitive solutions. The High Oversight Committee has almost always negotiated its way out of physical conflict with peoples of other worlds, so we have not had any wars for over eight hundred years. So, I am very interested to speak to someone who has had your experiences, but I would not require your insights if it would pain you too much.

T’elmach: Stop trying to let me out of it! I know you’re not doing it out of kindness, anyway. The Pallyani way is to negotiate—that is, manipulate—in all matters where a profit might be made—and there is no situation out of which a profit can’t be made.

Minorka: I must protest! I am doing my best to be sensitive to your feelings!

T’elmach: I know it. But I haven’t spent six hundred twenty eight years in this universe without picking up the ability to know when I’m being massaged. No, no more protestations, please. In fact, your group has shown great wisdom. If I must speak to anyone of such painful things, you would be the best candidate. For the sake of getting what you want, you’ll look at this business with only that objective. It’ll keep you from judging me the way a more socially-minded person might.

Minorka: Hmm. I think I have spent too much time away from Pallyan, learning the ways of less civilized beings. You are, of course, right. I will bear in mind that you would like me to be straightforward.

T’elmach: I’ll be equally straightforward. I’ve ordered atrocities of which the ancient conquerors could only dream.

Minorka: You have made awesomely horrible uses of power. How did you convince yourself to perform these atrocities?

T’elmach: There was no convincing needed: I was my father’s daughter. I’ve done the worst and most spectacular evils. I’ve used genetic engineering to turn whole cultures into ravening cannibals. I laughed and made jokes for the Imperial court while we enjoyed the televised carnage. I’ve destroyed planets while I lounged waiting for sleep to take me, and then I slept the sleep of the deeply satisfied. I once, because they refused to pay their taxes, destroyed a star, and while the people who lived in that solar system froze to death, I had a succession of slaves perform various sex acts on me as I watched their escaping starships being blown out of the sky by my cordon of warships. I was a horror to make my father proud.

Minorka: Ah. Uh. Hm. What...what caused you to stop? What caused you to go to the Great Brain?

T’elmach: I wish I could say it was some great revelation, some insight that showed me the utter wrongness. No. I enjoyed myself immensely. As it turned out, I enjoyed myself more than was good for me.

You see, I liked that power. I liked that responsibility. I adored the idea that I might die one day—well, it was hard to imagine myself actually dying, but I was able to toy with the idea—and be thrown into the Black Maze. I was sure I would find my way through and confront and defeat the Lord of Torments who assigns you your place in the Abominable Hierarchy. Yes, I would eternally be the one doling out the tortures.

But I also loved the present world, and I was determined that the rumors of my terror should precede me into the Black Maze. What’s more, I was very accustomed to getting my own way, and on the few occasions he chose to do so, I resented it when my father deigned to command me. I was eager that he himself should try the Maze. But I dissembled, and bided my time. And when I was sure my moment had finally come, I attempted to gather my fleets and take the Empire. But my father had not been asleep, and he had always been in full control, but had been clever enough not to let me see it. The generals I thought would serve me against him instead took me into custody and conveyed me to my father.

My father didn’t kill me. I was his only natural child, and he hoped, I guess, that he could rebuke me, that I’d learn who was master, and return one day to my place as his heir. He put me aboard a freighting ship with a retinue of Imperial Guard in disguise, and shipped me off to Vomarken, where I’d have to survive being stranded among the most savage prisoners of the Empire.

He was sure I’d rise to the top and be in charge of the place in short order. He wasn’t worried about me at all. But he wasn’t omniscient, and he’d slipped up just a bit. It turns out one of the Guard assigned to me was also a sometime sex partner of mine. He was strong-willed, of course, but he wasn’t immune to me. When I wore him out, I strangled him and clawed out his identichip and inserted it under my own skin. Yes, I know you’re not supposed to be able to do that—it gives off a signal that it’s been removed and then dies—but I knew a way.

When I got hold of the weapon he’d stored in the locker outside my room, it was all over for the Guard. I had sparred with all of them and knew their weaknesses. I killed them one at a time and took over the freighter.

But my father had outmaneuvered me again. The crew of the ship—I still needed them—had orders to crash the ship into the nearest large mass if I should get loose and make trouble. It turns out that we were passing within three parsecs of the Great Sphere, which was situated just over the border of Kur’nu’mari space. The captain of the freighter did his duty. How I survived I can’t say for sure. I doubt my father knows I’m still alive.

So, I had a long time to contemplate my hate. I had a long time to nurse it and shape it. That was my intention as the keepers of the Great Sphere took me inward, toward the black mass that is the Deep Orb. I never understood anything the keepers said, but I guessed clearly enough where I was. I had the intention of finding some way to turn the Great Brain of the Beta Quadrant to my cause—or at least to discover its secrets and use them to my advantage in my revenge. Such was my arrogance.

Minorka: That is quite a story. Why then are we not all enslaved to the Great Brain? Why does the Kur-nu-mari Empire still exist—with Yul’seh still the Emperor?

T’elmach: Truly, I don’t know. As the transport I was in came closer to the Deep Orb, I seemed to lose more and more of myself. I can’t describe it any other way. When I came close enough to see the thing—well, you don’t really see it, but it can be sensed by the absence of light: they have the area surrounding it all lit up. Anyway, when I came that close, it seemed to be a little eye in space looking toward me alone. And when we were close enough that it filled the viewscreen, the Orb seemed to be an all-powerful eye of black flame burning its way into my soul. I couldn’t look away from it. After that, I remember nothing—until I woke up one day on another freighter headed for the copper mines on Proxima Corina II.

Minorka: Your prolonged encounter with the Great Brain must have changed you in some way.

T’elmach: I’m not sure it did. I certainly didn’t feel any less fierce and manipulative. Within seven standard months I was running the mines and making bigger profits than Intercupra had ever seen. But I’ll grant that something was different. I think it was time and space that were different. The Deep Orb had simply taken me out of the game, given me a three hundred sixty year time out, if you will. It didn’t change me; the universe changed. More than that, I was forty thousand light years away from the farthest fringe of the Empire. I was working as the local C.E.O. of the Proxima branch of Intercupra. They didn’t know or care who I was—or maybe they did know and didn’t care. I was deep inside Harmonic Confederation space now, and things are simply done differently here. I still harbored the dream of conquering the Kur-nu-mari Empire and sending my dear father to the Black Maze, but contact with these people and their less brutal ways broke something in me.

During my instruction, by my father’s most effective “educators,” I was taught that the only way to get the ignorant masses to cooperate was to remind them overwhelmingly and often who was master. And it was important that they should cooperate with the desires of the Empire. They owed the Empire. The Empire provided them with certainty. If they had roofs and beds and clothing and food, it was the Empire that made it possible. The Empire was the crowning jewel of the universe, and it was a privilege just to be permitted to gaze upon its infinite glory. Everyone in the universe owed obeisance to the Empire. The Emperor was the manifestation of the God of the Creation. He could therefore do no wrong, and to gainsay him was unnatural.

Of course, my father knew this wasn’t true. He was no more the manifestation of God than a fart is a manifestation of good living. But there is, or was, a part of him that almost believed it, and he played the part of God Among Us. And I, I was the Daughter of the Divine. I was, by extension, my father.

Minorka: Surely your time spent with the Great Brain changed that. It is also revered as a god, and with more innate power, if the tales come close to the truth, to prove it. Even your father has been unable to penetrate the Great Sphere and dethrone the Great Brain.

T’elmach: You’re not thinking it all the way through, Minorka. You’re not equipped to fathom the heights and depths of cosmic arrogance. Maybe I didn’t have the full power of God, but I—was—God. In my own mind, and with seemingly abundant cause, I was the God of the Universe.

Minorka: You are correct. I have no experience to make me understand. I have made many deals that have endowed me with many rights, both in the world of Pallyan and in the wider Harmonic Confederation. But I rule nothing. I am god only of my own destiny. Anyone under my authority is there voluntarily, bound by a legal contract, and if I do not fulfill my portion of that contract, it is rendered null and void, and the person with whom I made it is free to engage in other contracts, if she wishes. Even marriages are by contract; if the contract is not fulfilled to the letter, the marriage is annulled. And children are held as wards under the only law we have ever had, which is the Law of Tradition, a contract with very specific child-rearing rules. If we break even one of those rules, others are free to bid for the contract on the child.

But other cultures do not operate so efficiently, and their rules are muddier. They are more sentimental. They believe in social obligation, in mutual owing, a condition originating at birth and carrying throughout life—with no legal contract. I have never understood the explanations of this horrendous attitude as more than rationalizations for a system of indentured servitude. I call it that instead of slavery because an individual can work her way up through whatever echelons of power there are in her society, and she can attain some freedom by the fact that accountability to the lower echelons becomes largely unenforceable.

I am very curious about such systems, how they came to be, and how they are justified. When you are ready, I would like to receive your insights.

T’elmach: Plying me with wine and food and an ear to hear me doesn’t constitute a contractual obligation, does it?

Minorka: Uh, no.

T’elmach: In many cultures wine by the fire obligates the receiver to sexual intercourse with the provider, if he or she so desires.

Minorka: Is that a proposition? I am not sexually attracted to you.

T’elmach: Do they have senses of humor on Pallyan? Maybe you could contract for one to be installed.

Minorka: Oh. Uh, pardon my foolishness, if you will.

T’elmach: I will. And the wine is wearing off, which means this conversation is becoming a bit painful for me. But having divulged so much to you, I do now feel an obligation to grant you your wish. So, we will talk of what one person owes to another.

Minorka: Thank you.

T’elmach: Okay. One person owes another nothing—and everything.

Minorka: That tells me nothing that I did not already know.

T’elmach: Short answers never tell you anything you didn’t already know.

Minorka: I hope you will elaborate.

T’elmach: I will. I owe it to you.

Consider then that, so far as we know, no creature asks to come into existence. So, how do we owe anything to anyone—at least as a natal condition? We did not engage in a legally binding contract, so to speak.

Minorka: But most systems require the offspring to be grateful, and out of that gratefulness to conform to the often rather murky dictates of their culture.

T’elmach: That is simple emotionalism, I think. The progenitors have a lot riding on the outcome of their bet. They project their expectations onto the child. Thankfully, I’ve never borne offspring. But let’s continue with the assumption that children don’t volunteer to be children.

Minorka: Yes.

T’elmach: Let’s further consider that, in most cultures, specific individuals do not force other specific individuals to produce children. In a culture that respects individual freedom to that extent, no one tells a breeding pair, triplet, quadruplet, or whatever, that they absolutely must produce offspring.

Minorka: Agreed.

T’elmach: How can they, therefore, be said to owe one one-millionth of a nanocredit to anyone born into their culture with whom they don’t engage in a legal contract?

Minorka: How can they?

T’elmach: To considered this, we must think of the origins of morality, what it is at its roots, and why we should care about it. So, let’s start at the beginning.

The universe is made in the Constructive Explosion. Quantum particles sort themselves out and become hydrogen atoms and a much smaller number of lithium atoms. Hydrogen atoms form nebulae, and some of the nebulae condense into stellar nurseries. Stars are born and produce heavier elements through nuclear fusion. Stars explode and die and spread their stuff out into the galaxy. Stuff collects into intrastellar bodies, planets, planetoids, asteroids, comets, and detritus.

None of this produces anything that we could rationally think of as any kind of moral imperative.

At some point, having developed to a certain state at which they can maintain it, some celestial bodies generate and harbor life. In the most rudimentary way, the simplest life forms are sentiently interactive with objects in their environment. But they have no ability to consider The Other, which has always been the most basic element of our estimation of morality.

When social plants and animals develop, things get much murkier in respect to the development of morality. These are elements of the universe which are mutually supportive. At least at a behavioral level, they make accommodations for one another. This seems to constitute a proto-morality.

I think sapients would argue that one must be sapient in order to possess an actual moral system. That is, you’ve got to be aware of the choices in your behavior toward The Other. But subscribing to that idea doesn’t tell us what morality actually is.

Minorka: I suppose it does not. But you still have not linked fairness and morality, and you still have not shown what one person actually owes another?

T’elmach: Don’t you think that these considerations are one and the same?

Minorka: Obviously, I do not.

T’elmach: I take your point, but it seems so very obvious to me.

Morality must be about fairness, fair distribution of physical and emotional resources. The only creatures that think about morality, or which have a need for morality, are social creatures that are also capable of individual action. An amoeba doesn’t consider what effect its actions will have on other amoebae, or on other creatures, or on the inanimate parts of its environment, or on its own microscopic soul. And, of course, are very social creatures, but they have no capacity to act as individuals. All their actions are programmed, by DNA and by chemical controls.

Minorka: These mindless or group-thinking animals are incapable of conceiving of individuality. But you and I can conceive of it, and you and I can feel its imperatives. So, while I may learn the information that my society wishes me to learn, I can cogitate on such matters as individuality, morality, and fairness. I can make my own decisions on such matters, if I really want to. I can break the patterns of my culture if I choose to. So, we Pallyans require a contract to spell out what is fair. Thus, we don’t have a need for morality as other cultures conceive of it. We do have traditions, and these are, in essence, an unwritten dimension of every contract. But legally valid contracts can be written that throw out certain portions of the Unwritten Contract. For us, all our business—morality, finance, military, marriage, child-rearing, familial obligation, etcetera—is conducted in an economic fashion. All business is business.

T’elmach: I don’t mean to revert to my old ways, but I’m annoyed with you, Minorka. I must ask if you can hear yourself? Do you understand the words that are coming out of you?

Minorka: What? Of course I can hear myself and understand my own words. That’s a very rude question.

T’elmach: Why do you say I pose a very rude question? Our spoken contract doesn’t contain any prohibitions about my asking whatever questions of you that I wish to ask, nor does it specify the manner in which I ask. It is therefore illogical of you to impose any sort of moral judgement on the nature of my manner.

Minorka: Um…yes, of course. I am in the wrong.

T’elmach: Your incorrectness goes much deeper than that, Minorka. You remind me of the business-people of ancient Terra. Their business was business. Morality had nothing to do with the business ethic. Morality was a consideration for their off-hours—the time when they were not actually working on business matters—but there was no such thing as off-hours: business operated at all times of day and night.

Though it was maintained and imbued with intelligence by humans, business was a machine that required all-consuming devotion: profit was King and God. All dealings, even of the most intimate sort, were seen as economic interaction, in which only gain mattered. These people believed they were serving the ideals of Adam Smith’s Capitalism, but they very much misunderstood Adam Smith’s ideas. Yes, the Invisible Hand would direct all economic action, and it would correct errors in the markets, but it was not a substitute for morality. In fact, the Hand could not function to the profit of all human beings, which was Smith’s ultimate vision, without morality to guide it.

Minorka: Very well, I suppose… Maybe we shouldn’t say “Adam Smith’s Invisible Hand”, but the Invisible Hand of economics works very well for us. And, we’re not Terrans. Maybe Terrans need some outside morality, but Pallyans don’t.

T’elmach: Hahahaha! Listen to yourself. Remember what you have said in this conversation. You speak of inculcated principles and Unwritten Contracts and minimalist social interaction contracts. You’re talking about an undergirding morality. You’re talking about fairness, principles that guide you in the construction of contracts.

Minorka: I must admit that you are now beginning to really annoy me! I am talking about logic, not morality. I am not talking in any way about fairness! I am talking about agreements reached. Fairness has nothing to do with agreement. A contract is reached when one party’s leverage is great enough to move another party into contrition. Leverage may be achieved when one party possesses something the other party wants or when one party is able to force the other into agreement. To keep the peace, because Pallyans find that peacefully-obtained contracts are less risky than forcefully-obtained contracts, we prefer mutually-beneficial trades. But this has nothing to do with morality, and everything to do with self-interest.

T’elmach: I guess it will soon be obvious that I do not agree with your self-assessment of your culture, Minorka. But I will give you this: the Terran business-people used to at least give lip service to morality. Even though the business-people regarded everyone as economic entities, not everyone in their various cultures believed they were business-people. So, in order to be thought of as good people, at least when they were dealing with foolish persons who didn’t see themselves as homo economicus, business-people would present themselves as believers in the prevalent moral system of their culture.

Minorka: I suppose that, since I’m trying to find out your beliefs, this is a valid line of discussion, but I find it too confrontational. I prefer that this be an interview. But you are evincing some sort of moral judgement—you, of all people—on my culture. Perhaps we could move the interview back to a more direct discursion on what one person owes to another, and to the wider culture.

T’elmach: You have claimed that your people are creatures of logic. I’m therefore left to wonder why you are so disturbed by talk of morality, which you claim not to need.

Minorka: Respectfully, I think you will have to keep wondering—on your own time.

T’elmach: Ah. You mean to say that you don’t think I’m living up to the contract then? I wasn’t aware that our Unwritten Contract contained a provision delineating my method. Ugh! I think I’m repeating myself.

Minorka: Maybe we should call our contract fulfilled.

T’elmach: Oh, no, Minorka! Not until you get every nanocredit’s worth. I would be very displeased if I didn’t think I had repaid you and your Philosophical Society in full for all you have done.

Minorka: What? What does that mean?

T’elmach: Nothing dire, I’m sure. But I wish to move on, as you have requested. I’ll leave it to your imagination to discern my thoughts on the matter of my engagement with your Society.

Minorka: Um, yes, well…

T’elmach: Hmm. Where was I? Considering morality and its relation to fairness…

A creature by itself, solitary by nature, has no need to consider other creatures of its kind, except when they come into its territory, or when it is time to mate. Unless it’s sapient, and wishes to consider the things of other kinds that inhabit its environs, it needs no morality. It can be as selfish as it wishes. It can kill rivals. It can tear down trees and overturn boulders. Its only daily concerns are nutritional and territorial. It may refrain from destroying potential mates, but that is out of a selfish desire to procreate. It may fear reprisals from creatures that are powerful enough to administer them, but it doesn’t have to care a whit about other creatures for any other reason.

But a social creature has to operate in a group. It has to consider the physical and emotional health of its fellows. If they don’t eat, they ail and then they die, and the group becomes smaller and less powerful. If they don’t help in the gathering of resources, the group becomes weaker than it should be. If they are unable to bear young, the group does not go on into the future. If there is no form of leadership, the group is less than optimally effective. These concerns are the roots of morality.

Minorka: Group-dwellers do need to have rules for interaction, but in my culture, people need a central authority only for legal oversight and for marshalling forces for armed conflict. Otherwise, we make our own rules for dealing with each other. Every interaction requires a contract, witnessed by an administrator who serves the local Oversight Committee. For ease of casual or occasional interactions, we have a Standard Contract, but this is a very minimal, and often liberally interpreted governing contract.

T’elmach: I think you’re looking at your culture in a very simplistic way. Your view doesn’t seem to allow that either the present day or the past has any influence on how you think about morality, how you think about the construction of your contracts. But where do you get your ideas about making contracts to rule your interactions? Why have contracts at all? Why not just do as you wish? The Invisible Hand will guide everything, with or without contracts.

Minorka: Hmm. We study case histories of contract law, but archeology and paleontology are not popular interests on Pallyan, so we dismiss these areas of endeavor as unprofitable—or rather, not profitable enough, even as a tourism industry, since no outside species’ seem particularly interested in studying our past—except as regards our views on contract law.

T’elmach: Well, contract law requires the willingness of both, or the several, parties so engaged to honor the contract. And there are sanctions for dishonoring the contract. This, in itself, is a simple form of morality. But when contracts are abrogated, the civil authorities must step in and adjudicate the matter. On what do they base their judgements?

Minorka: Contract law precedents, of course.

T’elmach: Prior to written language, it makes sense to think that contracts were oral—if indeed your culture always operated in a manner similar to the present. These contracts were certainly, at least after a number of disputes that couldn’t be settled satisfactorily by the engaged parties, witnessed by some authority figure. And whence did this figure derive her authority?

Minorka: We believe we are Created creatures and that the Creator created a Judge who knows everything about the universe. Thus, those whom we agree know the most about the universe and how it functions are considered to be in accord with the Judge. The Judge does not know the why of the universe, but she knows the how. Usually, we do not need to know the why, only the how, and so we seldom need to consult the Creator. The members of our various Oversight Committees consult with the Judge by acquiring or reviewing knowledge.

T’elmach: Interesting in its contradiction to everything else you’ve said of Pallyan contract procedures.

Minorka: I think you’re trying to provoke me now.

T’elmach: Yes, I’m trying to provoke you—to think. You’re trying to have it both ways. In a sense, you’re doing the perverse-converse of those Terran business-people. They were trying to have economics divorced from morality, and you and your people are trying to eschew the term “morality”, and call it economics. Like them, your people have slipped so far down into this logical ant-lion trap that you no longer recognize it as a trap. You’ve mistaken the assumptions of Tradition for pure logic.

Minorka: The insults continue!

T’elmach: Why do you stay? Maybe you should leave and forego getting your money’s worth.

Minorka: All—right. This is a logical exercise. Rebuke—or even praise—from T’elmach is of no value. Only logic matters.

T’elmach: Ad hominem attack? Tisk.

Minorka: Let us just move on.

T’elmach: I want to explore these logical fallacies that you attribute to your culture. I think they are very relevant to the subject you wished to explore.

Minorka: I do not know what the logic of my culture has to do with what one person owes to any other person.

T’elmach: I promise I’m not picking on you or your culture. Well, I am, but that’s only because it’s you who wanted me to expound. But your people are not the only ones who have ideas and ideals concerning individualism. This means, if I’m to meet your request, that I have to get at whatever logic surrounds the core of this belief in individualism. Since I’m talking to you, right here, right now, and not someone else, I have to get at the logic encapsulating your belief.

Minorka: Our ideas and methods have served us very well for a very long time. Why do you think you have to pick us apart in order to tell me about what an individual’s obligations are?

T’elmach: I know I’ve upset you. But very early in our conversation, you cast moral aspersions upon other cultures that don’t operate the way yours does. You maybe didn’t see what you said as moral judgement, but you said straight out that other cultures don’t operate efficiently. You described systems of mutual obligation as horrendous, as systems of indentured servitude. I simply have to challenge your assumptions, as well as your protestations that your culture does not need fairness or morality, and that you are proceeding in a purely logical manner. Logic follows the course of its assumptions. Thus, your assumptions must be examined. Otherwise, you will never understand what I have to say to you on the subject of what an individual owes.

Minorka: Very well, I see your point. Please go on.

T’elmach: I shall. Here goes: Your Oversight Committee members are not pure logicians, are they?

Minorka: What do you mean?

T’elmach: Do they always agree at every point when they render their judgements? Or are there ever dissents?

Minorka: Decisions must be agreed upon by nine out of ten Overseers.

T’elmach: That means there are dissents, differences of opinion—which means there are differences in perspective and personality.

Minorka: To persuade you to continue your argument, I will allow that.

T’elmach: What I’m driving at is that your culture does have a moral perspective, and it very much involves emotional outlook. Your culture’s Tradition is driven by moral considerations. It is not a purely cold, logical construction. Its precedents are set not purely by impartial calculation, but also by personality, personal interpretation based in the individual’s responses to her experiences. Your culture has simply gone in a different direction than others in dealing with the Social Contract.

But it all boils down to what is fair. What do I owe my fellows, and what do they owe me? It may be difficult to see this, since, over time, cultures get cluttered up with seemingly pointless mores and incomprehensible taboos, but those mores and taboos, once upon a time, seemed like existential necessities in the minds and hearts of those who understood the universe as they understood it at the time.

Take the rather extreme case of the Kerfusi. Once the dominant religion on their planet required that they anally rape a certain number of children each week and then eat them in order to power the sun and maintain life on their planet. This seems to be a tradition that is about as sick as it gets—though I’ve done worse. To this day, traditionalists require that all children have a butt-flap on their clothing, and that they wear nothing underneath it. And at certain times of the year, they conduct a ritual in which their most beautiful children are mock-raped and then placed naked on a table so that they can be symbolically consumed. Is there any real rhyme or reason to the continuation of this strange tradition? Yes. It was considered eminently reasonable at one time, and many still have an emotional attachment to such traditions. However, most other cultures would look on it and think it barbaric and absurd, certainly not the stuff of which morality is constructed. But at the time the tradition originated, this was life or death stuff. It was therefore quite fair for the society to sacrifice its children to the sun.

Minorka: But surely, morality has a bedrock and is constant. As you have said, logic proceeds from its assumptions. It’s when we add new assumptions in order to suit our current desires that the bedrock principles that become perverted.

T’elmach: In the example I just gave, morality didn’t become perverted: it was acted upon in a certain way at a certain time. The morality was that the group needed to survive, and that, in order to survive, certain sacrifices must be made. That’s what morality is really all about: in order to survive, what must I give up to my group, and what must it give up to me? People have solved this equation in different ways over time, but it is the bedrock of individual/group interaction. Morality is all about our relationship to the culture in which we find ourselves, what actions are allowable, and what actions must be punished, what blessings must be bestowed on those who act properly, and what must be withheld from those who act improperly.

Minorka: Under that definition, then, what is owed, and to whom?

T’elmach: I’m getting close to telling you what I think. I promise I’m not belaboring. You’ve gone to some trouble and expense to arrange this conversation, and I intend to give you your money’s worth.

Minorka: You sound almost like a Pallyan. I thank you for honoring our unwritten contract.

T’elmach: I’ll take that as a compliment. And, you’re welcome, I suppose. But I’m weary. I’ll try to wrap it up soon.

Minorka: There is no need to hurry on my account.

T’elmach: There is on mine. I find conversation wearying. I’d rather contemplate the stars, or, right now, the insides of my eyelids.

At any rate, the next to last step in answering your important question is to establish the Social Contract as I see it, in relation to a single person, and to the society to which she may owe something.

To the individual, the primary morality is individualism. I must get what is fair to me. I must survive. On a rational level that’s why I live in a group: to obtain the safety of numbers and the power of the group to obtain and distribute resources. On an irrational level, I’m genetically disposed toward group-living, and every fiber of my being feels that disposition. Even people who opt to cut themselves off from their own culture, or from all cultures except their own, personal one, have feelings about group-living, and they would live in a group if they could get their way more often without all the emotional jostling.

To the collective, the primary morality is us. How do we survive together? On what principles is our survival predicated? What blessings do we together have to bestow, and upon whom and in what form should they fall? The tribe mitigates the risks of living in a dangerous existence. The culture mediates between heaven—the wide, mysterious universe—and earth, the place where all the living gets done. Heaven is very important to a culture. It represents their beliefs about how it all came to be and how it is maintained. Without these beliefs, the tribe would be all at sea, uncertain what to do or how to be. These beliefs give both hope and practical knowledge. In essence, they bestow spiritual knowledge upon an individual and make her something more than just an animal—perhaps of superior intelligence—among other animals.

Minorka: As a matter of logic, I can see what you say. And I understand that even Pallyans are social—in very prescribed and proscribed ways. But all this stuff about people being lost and confused without the wider culture leaves me feeling nauseous. Are you saying that a person cannot survive alone?

T’elmach: I’ve been alone for what many would consider expansive stretches of time, but I was never really alone, you know. All those strings, both the influences of my genes and the tethers put on me by my experiences, kept tugging at me. The beliefs of my culture are what kept me from leaping out an airlock and waiting for the inevitable—and they are what caused me to contemplate leaping out an airlock to expiate my sins. Without even a minimal connection to other lives, how can there be any morality? How can there be any owing or being owed? It is not possible for a person to remain uninfluenced once she has encountered other lives. And it is not possible for a person who has never had contact with other lives to survive. There are plants and animals that might be able to do it, but they are programmed for it, and endowed by physiology to manage it. But we sapients are by nature social creatures. We are born lethally weak and defenseless. If our progenitors died at childbirth and left us in the wilderness alone, we would quickly die. We need support from the moment we are born until the moment we die, even if that support is no more than memories of what once was.

Minorka: I am not certain I totally subscribe to it, but it is your argument—which I contracted for. So I will not interrupt you again.

T’elmach: Thank you. The logical ship is ready to dock now, anyway.

As I said before, a person didn’t ask to exist, and her culture didn’t ask for her to exist. That’s a negative view of existence, but it’s the one most useful to this discussion.

From the individual’s side, she needs to live. That means she needs the necessities of life. She needs food. She needs shelter and maybe clothing. She needs to be protected from predators. She needs to be healed when she is injured or ill. And if she is to be of use to her tribe, she needs the tools of her vocation, which are knowledge and any actual tools that are used for her function within the tribe. Because we are group-dwellers, interdependent beings, that is what the tribe owes her. From a purely logical standpoint, she can’t be at peak performance unless she has these necessities, and for each notch she is below peak, the tribe suffers just a little. From an emotional standpoint, we are disturbed, either selfishly or empathically, to see fellow creatures at less-than-peak. We are moved either to deride them—or perhaps to prey on them in some fashion—or to commiserate with them—and perhaps to assist them in some fashion. The closer to peak all those within our realm are, the less likely we are to feel that we can or should prey on them, and the less likely we are to be shaken from our own pursuits by our desire to care for them. Of course our own pursuit could be the care of others, but that can be discarded for the purposes of this discussion.

From the group’s side, individuals must not be a burden to the group and/or a danger to its survival. The group is therefore best-served when the individual does as well as the group’s circumstances will allow. The individual, therefore, in order to receive the blessings of group-living, is obligated to do the best she can at whatever pursuits she engages in.

Well, that’s the basics of who owes whom what. The specifics are a discussion for the ages. Cultures have solved this equation in many different ways, as necessitated by their genetic inheritance and their environment, but they are not successful as cultures unless they work out how each component of the culture is to get what it needs from the other.

Minorka, you can believe my assessment or not. But I tell you I have seen a thousand cultures, and I have heard stories of thousands more. I have personally destroyed or set back hundreds of cultures. I have been the leader of my own goddess cult. I have eschewed my native culture, and I am a haunted woman. I can tell you there is no substitute for experience. And I can tell you there is no surer way of gaining perspective than switching sides.

I should thank you for this opportunity to put somewhat of the things I’ve learned into words—but it has been painful. I never needed to do much talking as Princess of the Empire. While I was held in thrall by the Deep Orb, I am told I did no talking at all. And because of my guilt I never wanted to talk much in my wandering. I did a lot of looking and listening, though. And I did a lot of doing of things.

But for now, the only thing I want to do is meet my dreams. My dreams are why I speak to you, and why I will speak to other members of your group. Yes, I have seen you stalking me. And I’ll leave you to contemplate why my dreams are important to me.

Minorka: Good night, then, and I hope your dreams will be good ones.

T’elmach: Hmm. Thank you, I suppose. But that seems unlikely

TARMAC MADNESS

Parking lot.

Fussing toddler.

Banging car door.

Squalling baby.

Rattling cart.

Sunday wind ripping through.

Dolly cart gets loose.

Wind obliging:

Dolly backing into traffic.

Lazy lob leaving a cart

To sail free

Across the pavement sea.

Couple looking at me

As I look at them.

Horns honking.

Child’s voice piping.

Bad muffler roaring,

Farting blue smoke.

SUV trundling away.

Wind roaring.

Leaves blasting

Across the pavement desert.

Cloudy sky

Casting its pall,

My only relief.

How will I cross the

Gulf of the pavement void?

Lake Erie seagull

Mocks me from above.

Autumn sirocco howls:

Hahahahaha!

If I use my shirt for a sail…

SOLILOQUY IN SABLE CEREMENTS

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“When a preponderance of the scientist’s peers conclude that her hypothesis is supported, it is considered to be a theory. A theory is provisional knowledge which has been proven to such a degree that it can be used as a stepping stone to acquire more provisional knowledge.”—Bradislav Brzezinski

---

“How long have I endured who was born in the Darkness before darkness? For how many ages more must I travail in the darkness ere to Darkness I return? Even the mountains must wear down in the wind, and the water, and the dust. Not I. I come at them and at them, and still they insist to resist. A thousand thousand lives shall they live, it seems, and I live but the one, and they will deny me my eternal satisfaction. They, the Ephemeral, and I, the Eternal, and they prick me without surcease, and I must prick them but one or a few at a time and derive from this a timely pleasure.

“What are these little motes against which I must contend all my days? Alone insignificant, and I may crush them at my leisure. Together weak and contentious, and I may crush them with hammer and flame. I extinguish them as a puff blows a candle, but always they rekindle, and shine their vacuous chaos into the voids that I have filled with order and certitude.

“O yes, you Children of Light! You play and you toil in the sun. You sing and you drowse beneath the trees. You love and you lie down together in your little houses. You raise up new brats to do as you have done. And then you fall down and your loved ones wail for a time—and then go on living!

“Damn your blind eyes! Damn your beating hearts! Damn your yearning flesh! Damn your petty thoughts of home and hearth! What know you, and what seek you beyond your stinking loins and your growling bellies? Even your dreams are muddied and disjointed! And all your bastard hopes and visions sing to Me, to the one who raises up the low and the petty, and who throws down the high and the noble.

“O, you sing praises to those on high and bethink you that wisdom has prevailed and shall ever prevail. But what do you know, you earthbound children of a tumultuous sun, bringer of wild growth and false revelations? What do you know of the Dark that undergirds? What can you see that eyes do not see? What do you hear that ears do not hear? What do you feel that hands do not touch? The light may illumine the darkness, but when the light goes, Darkness prevails. I prevail.

“I was there when the Song was sung! I was witness to the Flame that Does Not Wither! My thoughts and my desires wove into the World that Is! What know you? What know you?

“With your petty thoughts, you contemplate a brief hour—and then your bellies cry out, and the thought is lost—to be recovered perchance in twisted pieces. With your pungent loins you yearn a day, you strive one with another, and, sated or unsated, sleep, the intermittent death of wandering, steals in, and you are gone an hour or a night, supplanted by an unquiet corpse. And the loins, what they produce! Filth and disease? Bah! If only that alone! The fat pain! The joyful agony! The loins rent asunder! The unending slavery to broods of whimpering brats! The power passed out of a passing twining into a new generation of delusory biters and scratchers. And I remain! The snake bites the apple, again and again, and the apple is filled to bursting with love-hate venom—and I laugh! And I remain. I am One, and shall remain always One.

“What know you, you flies frittering and feasting on a lump of dung? I am the beetle who rolls up your world and plants its seed therein. I eat you from within and without. I am Time the Leveler. I am Space the Divider. You are Chaos, and I surround you and suffuse you. I Order you, and you refuse—and you die. You die day by day, or all at once. The difference is no difference to me.

“What know you, speaking stupidly of the Song that was Sung in the Day before Days? The Creator Created Me, and with Him, I created you. I am from the Mind of the Creator: the Creator and I are One thing. The Creator Created Chaos. The Creator Created The Restrainer. The Others Sang the Chaos, and I Restrained the Chaos. I gave the rhythm to the Song. Without Me the Song would have been a river flowing nowhere, on and on to infinity. No World, no Sun, no Moon. no Stars, no Day, no Night, no Right, no Wrong—only Chaos, everywhere and nowhere.

“It was I who fashioned for you life and form. I drove the Song. It was I who gave you sky and soil. I measured the Song. It was I who gave you fire and rain. I resolved the Song. It was I who brought you the seasons, the time of planting and of reaping. It was I who laid onto you the living and the dying. It is I who am your being and your undoing. The Creator Set Me in precedence over all things. It is I whom am Lord of Lords, bringer of Order. You are Chaos. And even those of you who love Me hate Me. You need me, and you revile me. And those who hate me most serve me best.

“I am the Hub around which the Great Wheel revolves. The Circles of Time spin out from Me. Lines of Demarcation radiate from Me. If the thing finds its place, it was I who brought it to a halt. If the river lives in its banks, it is I who tamed it. If the castle stands on great heights, it is I who uphold it. And if the castle falls, it is I who allowed the Chaos to take it.

“You say I am the Chaos. You believe it is I who devil you. You say you bring Order to the world. Think you, if you are able. Whence comes your Order? How do you perform it? What is your method and your motive?

“All that you do redounds to me. You use the tools that I use, and you call it good. You make peace with the strong arm. You withhold the whole truth and proclaim you told no lie. You lie, for you know nothing, and you proclaim your ignorance Truth. Your bards sing of a thousand thousand lifetimes, and the next thing you see you proclaim to be new! new! new!

“What know you, save that which brings comfort to you? What see you when you turn the blind eye? What hear you beyond your own echoes? What recall you, in your baseless pride, of a thousand thousand lifetimes? Naught! naught! naught!

“I tell you, I am old but always young, for I never falter. You are ever young, generation on generation, living on false altitudes, forgetful and repetitive, inconstant constants, and so always old! old! old!

“I know the patterns, for I fashioned them. I am the Pattern, for I Sang it. You were told by those on high that My Song was vain and loud and endlessly repeated. You were told that the bringers of Light and Life took up My Song and transformed Darkness and Perfect Order into Flowering Beauty and Catastrophe Made into Joy. Bah! I say! It was I who took up their ever-changing nothingness, their lid to cover the gaping Abyss, and made it transparent. Existence began in Ending. Change is nothing more than the vainglorious running away from the Uttermost Truth. I am Order, the fixed point from which you attempt to escape. As you run, swift or slow, I will catch you up in my own time, for I am Constant, and you are Intermittent. You sing, but I Sang, and all your most triumphant notes I name unto myself. Without Me, you are formless and Void.

“I am the very Will with which you oppose Me, for I am the Constant, the North Star, from which you derive your directions.

“I am the Truth concealed in Lies. I take form that you may see me. I take form that I may blind you to the truth of me. When I show you my form, whatever form I select, you cannot know me at all; my overwhelming affect obscures my encompassing effect. You cannot know me. You must never know me, for when you know me you no longer fear me. When you do not fear me, you do not hate me. When you do not hate me, you do not resist me. When you do not resist me, you nullify my power over you. You have leveled yourself, and your level is as you choose it, as high or low as you are, in and of yourself. I cannot crush you into the dust. You reeve from me my sole and truest Purpose. If I cannot dominate your thoughts and your ways, you bring your own Order, an order not imposed, but an order exposed, an indomitable island unperturbed amid storm-wracked seas.

“You must never hear aright the Song that we Sang in the Day before Days. The Music in you must be the marching drum, the droning monotony of a thousand mad dogs baying blood, the tedious thumping of the beast with a billion backs.

“And so, I must hate you, eternally and without surcease, lest you ruin me. I must gather my armies and let loose, lest you forget to hate me.

“Ah, here come my captains now. I believe you know them...”

LET FREEDOM RING! (…Could You Hold, Please?)

The adolescent dream is freedom.

The freest time of our

Life is when we are ambling

Children. And when, as adolescents we

Frog-march towards adulthood, we

Yearn back to the carefree

Times of childhood. So when we

Graduate into young adulthood, we

Unloose pent wildness,

Rebel against the chained-down world we

Thrust and are thrust into. As we

Forge and are forged through life, and settle

Down, seemingly beaten into obedience,

Accede to exigencies of existing in our

Restraining culture, the dream never dies even as we

Market our

Bodies and our

Minds to the highest bidder,

Or the only bidder

(As the case may be), we

Cry “Freedom!” We

Grumble on about our

Freedom to do this and our

Freedom to say that, even while we

Slave away for our

Employers (even if it is we

Who seem to be our

Employers), in order to support our

Families, in order to please our

Parents and our friends,

In order to be acceptable mates,

Or simply to be allowed

To go on existing. We

Are all-round connected;

And connection is not-freedom:

It isn’t even voluntary.

Few humans are free

Of the need for the other,

As a friendship source,

As an energy source,

As a sexual love source,

As a care giving source when we

Grow old or ill. We

Whisper “freedom”

Even as we hug our

Children, pat our

Pets, drink a latté. If we

Really wanted freedom, we

Would throw off our

Chains, renounce all bonds

Of friendship, kith, and kin. We

Would wander the earth,

Unconcerned for our

Needs, unconcerned for the boundaries

Others would impose on us. We

Would eat whatever fell before us—

Rendered itself up to us,

Lie down where sleep took us,

And perish where we fell. We

Would become like children.

But rather when we

Roar “Freedom!”, we

Seek to keep what we

Have, to maintain our

Possessions and our

Comfortable ways. We

Want to rid our several selves

Of parasitic threats to

Our self-securing wealth and our

Chosen form of slavery. We

Seek not to roam free,

Seek only familiar cares,

Death-grip to retain our

Familiar entanglements.

My family.

My religion.

My language.

My avocations.

My vices.

My loves.

My hates.

My truths.

My delusions.

My. Mine.

Me.

M.

e.

ART AND THE MACHINE

---

“A painting is derided as impractical, a frivolous waste of resources, of no value beyond what a buyer will pay for it.”—Bradislav Brzezinski

---

Art is the story of us. It’s the story we tell ourselves about ourselves. So, let us think about how the story began. I can’t tell you what precisely was in the minds of humans before there were devices for the recording of thought, but maybe inferences might be drawn from modern cultures that the West has arrogantly regarded as primitive.

Let’s imagine a hunting and gathering clan in Neolithic France near the end of our last ice age, living a nomadic life among the trees and valleys. As they go about their daily tasks they sing snatches of the songs of their people, and they talk to one another of the events of recent days, and the children drift in and out. At the end of the day, when the fires are lit and supper has been consumed, the people gather round the flames and listen as the elders recount the tales of days long passed. And all around them has gathered the night, full of eyes, claws, and teeth.

Among these stories are the tales of the shadow world, the spirit world of the things that go unseen in the darkness. These stories of what lies beyond life are the ones that most define who they are, for these stories speak of the things that the people should do and not do, how they should be in the world, what will please the spirits of tree and beast and sky and water and mountain, what will make the spirits of departed ancestors proud.

Among those who sit dutifully and listen are those passing into adulthood. They too are in a shadow world between the shining freedom of the young and the dark and dangerous burdens of the elders. They are unsure of themselves, and they have much to prove—they are too wise to value the happy ignorance of children and too foolish to value the tempered wisdom of adults. They must find themselves and their proper place in the clan.

There is this cave nearby, and for generations in its wandering, the elders have kept the clan within easy distance of it. The elders do not allow the young to tell the fire-tales of the people until they have passed through the trial of the cave. And so, the would-be elder receives glowing embers wrapped in green leaves and a bundle of torches. He is taken to a crack in the side of the cliff and told to enter into the blackness, to go inward until he comes to the open space. Then he may light a torch, and there he must stay until his torches burn out.

Knowing that the only way through the netherworld between childhood and adulthood is by this trial, he enters fearfully but stoically into the blackness. He wriggles through the tight spots in the unyielding stone, keeping a tight grip on his implements of light, his only link to the world of life, for he has entered the realm of death. Finally, panting and sweating, yet cold with dread, he finds the empty space of the cave. Trembling, not wanting to see what lies in the echoing dark, needing to see, he uses his glowing embers to spark up a torch.

And, what does he find? Why, only some hand prints on a wall, and pictures of aurochses, deer, horses, and bears, and some little men with spears and bows. He is relieved, but irritated that he had to endure all this just to see some pretty pictures on a wall.

But the mountain does not breathe well, and the cave becomes stuffy; the pictures dance in the guttering torchlight, and his head goes fuzzy. He has entered the world of waking dreams, and now he walks among the little men and the beasts, and he hunts and kills, and he sings praises to the dead quarry, and he communes with the spirits of long dead hunters. He is fading into the world of the spirits—and then the last torch goes out. He is alone and confused, and dying for air. He does not want to die, and so he must fight back to the world of life. Clawing at the night, he feels his way back to the narrow path to the outer world. It seems to take for ever, but he comes rushing back out into the free air, giddy with life. The elders can see that the child is reborn as an adult through his encounter with his own mortality, and that was their aim, for the price of wisdom could be no other. This new person is worthy to carry the ways of the clan into the future. This person has claimed his life and now may share that life with the clan.

It is through crisis that we find ourselves. Transforming from our old selves into our constantly new selves is the art of ourselves, and the art is made by our response to the trial of many caves, the story that we tell ourselves about ourselves. And as we do it, all the sentient cosmos is doing it. Our stories clarify and ramify one another, making a mutual human world. And our construction is given dynamism by our reactions to our interactions, just as when space, time, energy, and matter come into contact and react.

We, and all the world around us, are art. We are the creator and the created. When we experience the symmetries of flowers and clouds and trees and mountains and stars and seasons and life and death, we make of them a meaning. When we see Guernica on a wall, it comes into us and becomes a howling part of us. When we observe a pieta we see not only beautifully carved stone, we see the meaning, our meaning, of this, particular stone. When we marvel at ascending spires, flit among sprawling buttresses, and are bathed in the luminescence of stained glass, we stand amid the meaning and are overawed. When we hear our favorite song, we are folded into the multitude who are also moved by this music. And when we hear that noise that we hate, we are reminded that we are not alone, that others meanings exist.

Art is all around us, in us, and radiates out from us. Art is crisis, and engenders crisis. How we respond to the art of life shows us who and what we are—which, in turn, generates more art. We can respond with ART. That is, we can acknowledge with grace and harmony when we are acted upon by the art of existence. Or, we can respond with the MACHINE. That is, we can overthrow the other wills and phenomena that insist upon us, and we can re-form the dreadful world. We can understand that the order of the universe is broad and deep beyond ken, and we can live artfully, flowing together like a river, all tributary to one another, all flowing separately into all the cracks and crevices. Or we can impose a narrow, shallow order, held in place by fear, steel, and lead, and we can assume that we can understand; we can march in phalanxes and eat in rows and sleep in stacks—and when the harmony of the universe flows into the cracks in our seemingly impregnable fortresses of hubris, we can rage against undeniable tides—or we can learn to build boats.

      The Machine is relentless, inexorable, and ineluctable. It has no empathy or understanding, and it operates within strict tolerances. And if it breaks down, it cannot operate without replacement parts—and all parts are replaceable. It knows no loyalties, and it grinds through all resistance. But, ultimately, the Machine is a tool, an artifice of Art. Without the Machine, Art would be incomplete, for a story without dynamic tension is of no particular interest.

      So, that’s what art does for us in times of crisis. Art is life, and so Art has prepared us for the crisis, and Art has made the crisis. Art is the crisis; it is interaction, and it pervades all interaction. Art is the response to the crisis; it is our emotional rehearsal; it is our world-view. And when the crisis is upon us, we act upon the story that we have told ourselves about ourselves.

THE THIRTEEN WORLDS

THE WORLD OF NEVER

It’ll never happen.

I’ll never let you do that.

I would never do that.

I’ll never be happy.

You’ll never change.

You’ll never amount to anything.

You’ll never pass that test.

Mom’ll never go along with that.

Never, never, never, nevermore.

THE WORLD OF FOREVER

I’ll love you forever.

That’ll take forever.

You’re going to Hell to burn forever.

Diamonds are forever.

They lived happily ever after.

I’ll remember it forever.

I’ll hate you forever.

For ever and ever—Amen.

THE WORLD OF EVERYTHING

He controls everything.

I want everything.

He hates everything.

Everything’s always the same.

I’ve seen everything.

He denies everything.

She’s my everything.

Everything is everything.

THE WORLD OF NOTHING

I am nothing.

You are nothing.

Whisper sweet nothings.

I owe you nothing.

Oh, it’s nothing.

Nothing ever changes.

Nothing ever happens here.

Nothing could be worse than this.

Nowhere, nothing, and no way.

THE WORLD OF ALWAYS

You always do that.

You always say that.

You always get that.

I always succeed.

I always fail.

It’s always the same thing.

So shall it be, always.

It will always be here.

THE WORLD OF COMMON SENSE

It’s just common sense.

It’s a common sense solution.

You’ve got no common sense.

Where’s your common sense?

Why don’t they use their common sense?

Common sense tells me.

His common sense deserted him.

It’s just common sense.

It’s just not common sense.

THE WORLD OF HATE

I hate it.

She hates me.

I hate tolerance.

They all hate me.

I hate you.

I hate asparagus.

I hate tardiness.

I hate intolerance.

THE WORLD OF LOVE

I love it.

I love her.

She loves me.

All you need is love.

I love chocolate chip cookies.

For God so loved the world…

Why won’t they love me?

Love. Love. Love.

I would do anything for love.

Love made me blind.

Love conquers all.

Stay young and beautiful—

if you want to be loved.

The opposite of love is not hate:

it’s indifference.

THE WORLD OF KNOWLEDGE

I know it for a fact.

I just know it.

I don’t need to know.

It’s only need-to-know.

I know it in my knower.

To know him is to love him.

I know what you want.

I know what you’re thinking.

I know you better than you know yourself.

I don’t know much, but I know this.

I’m afraid I don’t know.

THE WORLD OF THE PERFECT

God is perfect.

To form a more perfect union…

It’s just perfect.

It’s perfectly straight.

She’s perfect.

Oh, that’s just perfect!

It’s a perfectly fine afternoon.

They have the perfect marriage.

Little miss perfect.

To be perfectly honest…

THE WORLD OF SOMEDAY

Someday, my ship will come in.

I’ll get to it, someday soon.

Someday, my love…

Someday, she’ll return my love.

He’ll see the light, someday.

Someday, I’ll show them all.

You keep saying, “Someday…”

Someday, it will all fall down.

Someday, you’ll be all grown up.

THE WORLD OF TRUTH

Their love is true.

Is it true?

His aim was true.

I swear to tell the truth,

the whole truth,

and nothing but the truth.

Sojourner Truth.

The truth shall set you free.

How can I know truth from lie?

It’s the absolute truth!

To tell the truth…

The light of truth.

True lies.

Truth is the first casualty.

THE WORLD OF PERCEPTION

I can see it from here.

I can’t see it from here.

I can hear it in the wind.

I think you hear it in your mind.

I can smell it on your breath.

I can’t smell it in this room.

I can feel it with my hands.

I can’t feel it at all.

I can feel it in my bones.

You have feelings?

I can’t perceive it:

It can’t exist.

I can’t perceive it:

It must exist:

Extrasensory perception.

I can’t understand

Why you can’t understand.

THE ONE AND THE MANY

---

“Now, more than ever, money has become a substitute for morality and ethics. Even Faith hasn't gone unscathed. Wealth is equal to goodness. Money is portable morality. Money is the true salvation.”—Kam Hijat

---

The young woman reached out and grasped the cattail reed and rattled it. The autumn fluff flew out in a little cloud and wafted down and settled in many places like an early snow. She observed and smiled.

She parted the wall of weeds before her, high sawgrass and bushes on one side and cattails on the other, and began to pass through. A few feet in she stopped and gazed up at the sky. A passing cloud began to engulf the sun, and she smiled. A breeze and the shadow of the cloud washed over her, and the reeds began to chatter, and she smiled. Then the sun came out again, and the cloud drifted serenely on, and she smiled.

“Sunny days and clouds and breezes and cattails,” she said to no one in particular. And then she moved on.

Finally, and with considerable effort, she broke through to the oxbow lake. The sun was out in all her glory there, and the dazzle was nearly blinding. The young woman smiled and pressed on to her favorite tree, an old, shady box elder some of whose branches stood out over the bank. She sat down on a tangle of roots that the tree had thrown out of the embankment near water level and wriggled a little to make herself comfortable.

She looked out over the lake, less dazzling now that she had found her spot, and she saw a rowboat standing just about halfway across the water from her. In the boat were a young boy and a man, and she took them to be father and son. She could not hear them, but they had fishing poles propped up on the gunwales and lines in the water, and they appeared to be talking quietly to one another. The man reached down and ruffled the boy’s hair. She could not quite see the boy’s face, but she imagined a sort of half grin there and shining eyes. She smiled.

“Child and parent,” she said to no one in particular. And then she closed her eyes and took a cat nap.

She awakened about twenty minutes later to deep divots in her back. Stiffly, she levered herself out of her root-couch and rubbed out the aches with both hands. The boat had drifted so far away that it appeared to be no more than a dark matchbox floating on a mirage. In the afternoon heat, the water’s edge smelt vaguely of fish. She wrinkled her nose, and she smiled.

“Water and fish,” she said to no one in particular. Then she walked on until she found her favorite creek that drained into the lake. Here the water ran over a little dam that had formed when a large piece of driftwood jammed itself among the roots between the two oak trees that guarded the border between creek and lake. She hopped over, and her feet squished excitedly as they got stuck in the mud on the other side. She had to pull her feet out of her shoes to get free, and she cluck-clucked, much in the manner in which her shoes clucked and sucked as she hauled them out of the muck, and she shook her head, and she cleaned her shoes as well as she could with a stick. Then, she tied them together and flung them over a shoulder and walked on, smiling. The shoes made little brown arcs on either side of her shoulder as they swung back and forth while she walked between the steep, tree-topped embankments.

After a while, she stopped and turned and looked back at the trail of her bare foot prints on the creek-bank. She smiled.

“Muddy shoes and bare footprints,” she said to no one in particular. Then she continued along in the pleasant shade of some willow trees that leaned out over the creek from both sides.

At last the banks of the creek became only a foot high on one side and two feet high on the other, and she stepped up onto the lower side into some unshorn grass, wiped her muddy feet, and walked on toward the house and barn at the edge of sight. There were sheep in the field, and she stopped to watch them graze for a moment. They knew her and they were not afraid, and so they went on placidly nibbling the grass right down to the roots. She smiled.

In the far distance, she heard a plaintive howl like that of a coyote. She shivered, and some of the sheep looked up nervously. But she had never heard of coyotes so far east, although there might be some wild dogs filling in for the missing coyotes. She didn’t know what precisely were the qualifications for that line of work. She smiled.

“Sheep and coyotes,” she said to no one in particular. Then she went on.

When she finally reached the buildings, the westering sun was approaching the horizon. A mouth-watering smell of roast lamb, carrots, and potatoes came out to her from the two-storey, clapboarded farmhouse and urged her tired legs onward.

Out of the house came flying a little girl who swiftly grappled her legs and cried, “Mommy!”

“Annie!” the young woman replied. “I guess you missed me a little.”

“Just a little,” the little girl giggled. “But Grandma and I had lots of fun hanging out laundry and making supper. And I made a mud pie for desert.”

“Mmmm,” responded the young woman.

“Looks like you already had some mud pie, Mommy,” said Annie.

Standing in the doorway, just behind the wooden screen door, a much older woman said, You’re quite a sight, girl—all covered in filth and welts. One day to yourself, and you become an overgrown child!”

“What’s wrong with being a child, Grandma?” said Annie, looking back over her shoulder.

“Thanks for the time, Mom,” said the young woman.

“Yes, yes,” said Grandma. “Just get in here and clean up and change before your father and brother get in.”

She smiled, and Annie smiled—and when she didn’t think anyone was looking, Grandma smiled.

“Mother and daughter and sister,” the young woman said, to no one in particular. Then she went inside to do as she was told, dropping her shoes on the porch by the door as she entered. Her mother gave her a strange, appraising look as she passed by.

---

“The east thirty is all that’s left,” said Dad. “We’ll have it all in by tomorrow night if the combine holds out.”

“Would you like me to give it a going-over tomorrow morning before breakfast, Dad?” asked the young woman.

“If you’ve had enough time,” responded Dad as he swallowed his last mouthful of the mud pie, “it’d sure be a good thing to do. Soon enough, we’ll all have an easy time of it for a while.” The young woman smiled.

“Farm hand and mechanic,” she said to know one in particular.

“What’s that, Sis?” said her brother, who was sitting on the other side of her from her daughter.

“Oh, nothing, Carl. Just thinking out loud.”

“You’re weird.”

“I know it.” She and Carl smiled at one another.

---

“You’re not weird, Mommy,” said Annie as the young woman tucked her in. “You’re the normalest person I ever knew.”

“If you say so, dear,” responded the young woman as she kissed her daughter goodnight. “But I don’t see anything wrong with weird, and I hope you grow up to be a little weird.”

“I don’t want to be weird, Mommy,” Annie said vigorously. “Grandma says weird just ain’t right. Grandma loves you. So you can’t be weird.”

“Okay,” said the young woman. “Grandma knows a lot of things. So, she must be right. ‘Night.”

“’Night, Mommy.” She smiled.

“Weird and normal,” she said to no one in particular, as she went to her own room to find her own bed.

---

As she lay in the moonlit dark, waiting for weariness to do its work, she thought: Sunny days, clouds, breezes, and cattails. Children and parents. Water and fish. Muddy shoes and bare footprints. Sheep and coyotes. Mother, daughter, sister. Farm hand, mechanic. Weird, normal. She lay and mulled it all over for a few minutes.

So many things the world is to me. So many things I am to the world and the people in it. So many ways I see, and so many ways I am seen. So many ways I’m expected to be. She smiled. So many people all through time from Creation on thinking the same things.

“I am the one and the many,” she said to no one in particular. And we’re all back at it tomorrow, hammer and tongs. We rest when we’re dead. We die when time takes us or we get eaten. And one day, Annie will grow up and know she’s part of it all. She smiled ruefully and rolled over and drifted off to sleep on a moonlit cloud.

SONG OF SURRENDER

There is no beginning.

There is no end.

There is one beginning.

There’s the inevitable end.

There is no cause—

But there’s much effect:

It’s all magic—And you are tragic.

I need no reason;

Reason is treason.

I need my heart,

An astrologer’s chart,

A string of beads,

And the smoke of weeds.

I need not question.

I must only accept.

Your words bring no comfort;

They are worthless to me.

My words are the blanket;

I am warm in cold climes.

Your words are a shovel;

They reveal our grave.

I listen to my words;

I shall escape your grave.

You question and question—

And what do you find?

Only more questions.

How big is your mind?

Can you hold it all?

When will you burst?

I have no such problem:

I do not thirst.

I do not hunger:

I have all I need.

You only fail.

I always succeed.

I need no cause:

The Cause is the cause.

The cause of the Cause

Has no cause.

I welcome oblivion.

I sink into its bosom.

I suckle its nothingness.

I rejoice in its voice:

It says all the things

That I long to hear.

There is justice and peace

If I only release

And wait for the time

When I’m finally sublime—

I must only surrender—

Surrender, surrender,

Surrender, surrender,

Surrender, surrender:

You will surrender,

Be rendered till tender,

Surrender, surrender.

The whole world surrenders—

And here we are.

INTERPOLATION

The infinitesimal mote floated free before the infinite white light, like a miniscule insect that hovers close to a lit bulb. The light was not and unrelenting, as if it were intent on obliterating all darkness, and darkness was defined as all things other than the white light.

            The mote knew that the infinite light was aware of it. How the mote knew this, the mote could not say, but the mote knew more surely than it knew anything else. And the mote knew also that the all-invading light bore it no more regard than any other mote that existed within the light’s sensory range—and everything was within the light’s range.

            Likewise, the most was absolutely sure that the white light was in absolute control. There was nothing that passed within its gaze that would be allowed any deviation. The infinite light had developed a scheme-of-things, and from the scheme there could be no deviation.

            Simultaneously, the mote felt like foreign matter. Certainly, the mote felt like an irritant. as if the white light might at any moment bring its full attention to bear, recognize the incongruence, and excise the intrusion. The mote felt that it might deviate wildly at some point, that it was currently deviant, and that the scheme-of-things could be applied to all other motes, that they would dance the appropriate dance. This mote did not dance, or it danced wrongly; it was out of step; it was de-cadent.

---

            “Look, Bart—“ said Bertrand Bumble.

“Don’t call me that,” said the seven- or eight-year-old boy. “My name is Bartholomew!”

“Bart!” said Bertrand. “I’m your father: if I want to call you Bart, I will.”

The boy said nothing, but he stood, fists clenched, glaring at Bertrand.

“As I was saying,” said Bertrand, “you’ve got to mind me. You have needs, sure, but I’ve got needs, too. I’m the adult, and I made you. I make the decisions. You do what I tell you to do. I’m right because I’m in charge.”

“How does being in charge—?” cried the boy.

“Because it does!” roared Bertrand. “No more arguing! Go in your room and play! Your mother will get you when it’s time for supper.” Bertrand turned his attention back to the huge book on his desk. For him, the matter was settled—permanently and absolutely.

Not so for the boy, who stood defiantly, but silently, between the desk and the door.

The den, of course, was Bertrand’s control room and his sanctum. He was not a wealthy man. In fact, he was the lowest-paid mechanical engineer he knew of. So, the den wasn’t well-appointed. The small desk and shelves were chipboard, laminated to look like oak, walnut, maple, and cherry, but the shelves were full of books, and the desktop was covered with tablets and a gigantic catalog of materials specifications. Bertrand was an engineer, and everything was properly in place, dusted, and impervious to disorder—or it should have been impervious.

There was a south-facing window that let in the bright sunlight from outside, making Bertrand a silhouette and limning his torso with a solar nimbus. Bartholomew’s father was the avatar of the sun, and the boy was drawn to him. But the sun was too hot, and the boy got burned consistently. Those burns were deep, right down to the core, irreparable, but survivable.

After a couple of minutes studying the behaviors and durability of vanadium steel, Bertrand looked up and sensed something incongruous: the boy had not moved as commanded. Bertrand didn’t speak right away, but sighed and put his elbow on the desk. He rested his head on his palm and stared back at the boy.

After a while, Bertrand asked, “How am I going to be the father if you keep refusing to be the son?”

“I don’t know,” said the boy. “You’re the father. You know things. You know what fathers know, I guess. I only know what sons know.”

“No, Bart,” said Bertrand. “I don’t think you know what sons know.”

The boy looked all around the room. “Who are you talking to?” he asked. “Who is Bart?”

“Don’t you even know that?” asked Bertrand. “You’re Bart, my boy. Accept it so we can move on.”

“I’m Bartholomew,” replied the boy. “I wish you’d accept it so we can move on—whatever that means.”

Jerking himself out of his chair so that he became a looming shadow with the sun behind him, casting him all across the room and onto the door, Bertrand said: “I’ve had just about enough! This is my den. You have a room. Go to it and play like I told you!”

“No,” said the boy.

“Why not?” asked Bertrand. “You can’t possibly be enjoying yourself in here. How long can the fun of annoying me last?”

“I’m not having fun,” stated the boy.

“Then why?” asked Bertrand. “Why won’t you do what I tell you?”

“You’re an engineer,” the boy replied. “You told me that material can only do what it can do, right?”

“Yes,” Bertrand responded slowly.

“I’m Bartholomew.” said the body. “I can only be Bartholomew.”

“But you’re my material,” said Bertrand. “I made you. I ought to know what you can do.”

The boy shrugged. “I guess I’m just bad material.” He turned, his little body’s colors dulled by his father’s shadow. He opened the door, and the shadow spilled into the living room. He went out and shut the door, and it was dark.

---

            I am Father, the mote felt the white light say. I do not make bad material. I have uses for you.

BOOM BOOM BOOM! Boom! Boom boom. Boom! Boom. Boom.

            As he faded away toward the next vision, Bartholomew thought he could hear a bubbling, gurgling laughter, such as he always thought a gigantic spider might make as it was about to pounce on its prey.

DISCORDANT CONCORDANCE

---

“I live in an apartment, in an apartment complex, in a small city. I live in a county,  in a region, in a state, in a tri-state area. I live in a nation, on a continent, in a hemisphere. I live on a planet, in a solar system, in a stellar neighborhood on the rim of a galaxy, in a galactic neighborhood, in a universe, in a multiverse. You all live here, too.

“I am a male human, a collection of organs, billions upon billions of cells. I am neurotransmitters sparking across synaptic gaps, clusters of chemical compounds. I am trillions of atoms., quadrillions (or more) of quarks. I am existential forces: randomness, gravity, electromagnetism, nuclear forces, space, and time. I am the existence of nothing, and, to some, the nothingness of existence.

      “I am clouds, clusters, currents and eddies. I am thunder and lightning, whispers and darkness. I am love and hate , life and death, truth and deceit. I am God and Satan. I am you and me. I am Nobody, who puts out the eyes of Cyclopses.

      “I am all of these things all of the time. My world is all logic and all emotion, all order and all entropy, all fact and all mysticism.”—Kam Hijat

---

“I am God,” utters the Voice of All Voices in the blackness. “This is my world: all is as I desire. There is room for you here: the world is yours as well. All that you do redounds to my glory. I make the sun to shine where I wish it to shine. If it shines more brightly upon some and more darkly upon others, what is that to you? Live by the life with which I have endowed you. You will be as great or as small as is best for you. Rejoice, then, that there is life! And rejoice when there is death!”

There is a wide, flat, dusty plain with tufts of long grass and a few thorny trees. An antelope of large proportions hurls itself through the scene, and a huge lion sweeps in behind it. The lion catches the antelope, drags it down, and throttles it. The animals melt into the earth and are replaced with a hairy man. A spear appears in his hand, and he kills a bovine creature with it. He disappears, and a hairless man replaces him. This new man scrapes the hide of the bovine creature clean and then paints a picture on it. “You are what you are,” the disembodied Voice of All Voices says, echoing across the plain, “but you will be more.”

---

By the banks of the Euphrates river, a tribe of The People dwells, led in the world by their shaman. Only the shaman is allowed to speak in words or to make drawings. The people seem happy with this arrangement…

One sunny day, a red-haired girl sits down by a pool next to the river and gazes at her reflection in the still water, as she listens to the birds in the bushes and the gentle sloshing of the river. She sees the sun in the water, and a few passing clouds, and a hawk slowly drifting by on a thermal wind. An idea comes to her. “Oshi,” she says, and then she picks up a small stick and draws a crude picture of a soaring bird inside a circle in the sand. “Oshi kardu,” she says again, pointing to the bird in the ring. An old woman looking on smiles, but then her face goes dark, and she turns and runs away as quickly as she can.

Soon after, a dark-faced, dark-haired, middle-aged man leaning on a crooked staff comes to the pool. He observes the many stick-pictures, and blood comes into his face. He raises his staff and begins beating the girl savagely as he utters a string of angry sounds that might be words. When the girl finally collapses, unconscious, in a bloody heap, he urgently scratches out the stick-pictures with the end of his blood-stained stick.

The girl survives the beating, but she is not the same pleasant, insightful person she has been. She remains utterly silent and makes no more pictures—and she watches the shaman closely. One night after she has reached her full adult strength, when all the others have gone to sleep in the cave where they all live, the girl arises and goes into the shaman’s enclosure, takes up his staff, and kills him with one savage blow. “Nama kata!” she whispers fiercely, and then she spits upon his corpse.

She reaches out and touches the dead man and digs in her fingers until she draws blood. She keeps her clenched fist in his chest, and her face goes blank—and after a few minutes she draws out a glowing orb and clasps it to her breast: it sinks in, and her form changes to that of the shaman. She drags him to the river, ties his corpse to a log, and he floats away to the sea. As she watches him go, she says, “Utu kinya che krit, malah shu Nen!” (You who denied me a name, I am Nen!)

She does not know how she did what she did, but she remains in the guise of the shaman for years thereafter—and none of her fellows are the wiser, though she endeavors to teach them how to speak and to make symbols, changing the sacred law of the tribe. As the shaman’s body nears its death, she leaves the tribe to die in the wild and be a burden no more. But as she stumbles in the green fields near the mighty Euphrates, she comes upon another tribe of humans, and they suffer her presence for a few days. One of those days, a fine sunny day, she comes upon a little girl scratching lines in the sand, and a red rage, and a lust for new life, fills her—and she does to the girl what she did to the shaman, and she becomes in form a little girl again.

“I will spin out my webs like the greatest of all spiders,” cried Nen. “Yes, I will be the Queen of All Spiders. I will see all and know all. I will exist in all times and all places. You will never have power over me again. My name is Nen Eldest, but I shall have no name, and I shall have within me all the names worth having. I shall be everyone worth being. History shall know me but not see me: I shall be history. Kill me now, if you can!”

A tall man of mighty muscle and a regal woman of long, raven hair are standing in a room of tan walls. “I dreamed of a star that fell from the sky,” said he, “and the people were amazed and afraid. I tried to pick it up and carry it off, but could not. I, the greatest of all men, could not take away the fear of my people. What can it mean?” “Perhaps,” she replied, “it is a sign from Heaven. Could it be that you are not the greatest of men and that you have an equal? Will the people then not fear, for under your protection has your city come to prosper? But your people, in their turn, fear you, for your pride.”

In a stone room hung with tapestries and lit by two torches in its center sits a dark-haired lady on a simple chair. Standing next to her is an olive-skinned man with curly hair and richly-colored tunic, girt with a sword. “If you trifle further with this woman from over the sea,” she says to the man, “he will come for her…and it will be our undoing.”

Several armored men stand at an altar over which looms a golden falcon. But they are not making a sacrifice: a parchment map lies upon the surface, showing a long river and many towns and cities along its length. In walks another armored man and two slaves bearing a rolled-up rug. “A tribute to Rome and to Caesar!” cries the newly-arrived soldier. “Yes, yes,” replies the balding warrior at the center of the scene. “Just set it down.” The slaves lay it down, and as they do, it unrolls, revealing a young woman of goodly proportions, raven hair, and not unpleasant face. She stands up, one of her breasts falling out of her silken tunic. “A tribute, indeed,” says the warrior-leader.

“The roads are closed,” says the dark woman in the ornate palanquin to the slight man walking alongside, “but Great Khan has declared that he will open them. Great Khan needs no counsel, but he has been counseled nonetheless. A subtle counsel is more potent than a thousand swords.” She chuckles. Showing some courage, the little man chuckles quietly as he looks around nervously.

“The whites will come, my lord,” says the fat old priest. “The Great White with the yellow beard will come out of the sea like Quetzalcoatl, but he will not be the White God. Yet, all our prayers will be to no avail. Why will the gods not aid us? Have we not done well? Of course, we have. Still, the gods will not aid us, and we will be left to deal with that as we may. The Whites are powerful, coming with their metal skins, and their mighty riding-deer, and their sticks which shoot fire. But maybe we can prevail with guile. Will we try, my lord, or will we quake in terror as the feet of doom come to trample us?”

Sitting in an ornately-carved rocking chair, the large woman with the salt-and-pepper hair says to the younger, slimmer woman, “Why should women want the vote? This puts women in the front of things, gives them yet more responsibilities. The power of women has always flowed from a place where it is difficult to see—and it has been potent indeed. The only reason women lack power is that they are too cowardly or too beaten-down to use it. ‘Behind-the-scenes’, as they say, is much more effective, allows much more control, than overt power.”

There is a figure with metal strips wrapping her waist, arms, and legs like the bandages of a mummy. A metal band full of wires engulfs her head, and the wires bundle over her and disappear into the metal bulb which hangs from the ceiling. She is only known as a woman by the softness of her face. A tall, thin man in a military uniform stands before her. A window opens in the band around her head, revealing glowing, golden eyes. She regards him with devastating intensity for what seems an eternity—and he somehow stands silently and defiantly. Finally, she says, “I am the Vargûlth Empire, Kim Dae-yo. Did you expect some great and horrible creature with five hundred eyes, a head swollen to the size of a planet, and eighteen mouths with which to devour its victims?” “No, indeed,” the man responds. “I knew that you must be human: you understand us too well. Your tactics and strategy are brilliant, but you aren’t the brightest star in a galaxy of brilliance, and you’re all too human. We must eventually defeat you.” “I suppose you will,” she replies, “as a species, inevitably defeat me—but it will be too late: I will have achieved my objective.” She smiles as well as her headband allows. “Do not look so surprised. You know quite well what I am really aiming at: the war with the Harmonic Confederation is just a stepping-stone.” He says nothing in response. “I suppose you think I will kill you now, so that your knowledge cannot harm me. But I will not. In fact, I will let you go. I will even give you back your ship and crew, with minimal armaments, of course. Tell everyone you wish of what you have surmised. Most will not believe you, and if anyone important does, it will just mean that my plan comes to fruition much more quickly—and I will thank you.”

There is a place of white walls and sterility. A few people walk purposefully through the large room to pass in and out of doors which are not visible until these people pass into or out of them. There is a woman in a red robe standing next to the bed in the middle of the room, and a naked old man lying on the bed, sweating profusely and writhing. “What have you seen, Janu?” “Ou-our enemy,” breathes the old man. “Yes, Janu?” “Our enemy is the Great Spider!” “Oh, how dreadful!” “Her web spans our whole universe—and beyond!” “That’s terrible, Janu!” The woman leans over and gives the old man an injection. “Call Janu’s family: it won’t be long now. And call the counsellor: they’ll need help coping with the raving.”

---

In the midst of the dark there was a tiny star. Its light sparkled out in random rays of many colors. And sometimes it would seem to the eye to go dark altogether as its light shifted through the infrared to the radio and microwave, or through the ultraviolet to the x-ray and gamma ray frequencies.

Precisely 896.6666667 meters away sat, untouched by the little star’s emanations, a black, metallic sphere surrounded by a white aura. Oriented toward the star was its translucent portal. Behind the portal sat a person, gazing out at this amazing phenomenon.

This is the door, thought the mind within the person. I must enter before she comes. But I do not know the way through.

You must put away such thoughts, said another idea. Do not think as she thinks. The Great Competition is her way and the way of all whom she has swayed.

But if I don’t find the access and enter in, I cannot prevent her executing the Final Plan, said First Thought.

If it is your aim to impose your own will upon the entire multiverse, replied Another Idea, I hope that you do not succeed.

My will is a better will, said First Thought emphatically. I know right from wrong, and she is mad. She must not come to oppress all of existence.

Are you infinite? retorted Another Idea. Does your being run from the heights to the depths—of all existence? Do you look as from on high down upon all actions and thoughts and judge them for good or ill?

If I could pass through the portal, answered First Thought, I could do just that.

Then your plan must not succeed, stated Another Idea.

How will you stop me? inquired First Thought.

I will not, answered Another Idea. You will stop yourself.

The two thoughts were silent for a time. The shimmering light came in through the portal and played over the face of the occupant of the sphere, and the face seemed to writhe in terrific agony as the eyes glittered with eager intensity.

At last First Thought said: If I understand what you are saying, I may go through the door, but I will not prevent her doing the same.

Have no fear, responded Another Idea. Fear is her way. She must go through the door by the same means as you. I do not believe that she is yet able to do so. And, if she could, what would it matter?

I don’t understand, said First Thought. Of course it matters who goes through this door.

If that is what you think, answered Another Idea, then you truly do not understand—and you will not pass the door.

The ultimate power of creation lies beyond this portal! screamed First Thought. The Hypesothesis lies there, and the power to do anything! She must never enter that realm.

You are thinking as ephemeral beings think, replied Another Idea calmly. Your thoughts are entombed in space and time. Within the Hypesothesis, will your thoughts be bound up in space-time?

No, answered First Thought quickly and with hyper-intense excitement, on the verges of madness, knowing what would come next and dreading it with a deadly and enervating dread.

Do you really believe this, queried Another Idea, or is it no more than an intellectual exercise?

I do not know, answered First Thought sullenly, all the thrill suddenly fleeting away.

And here you sit, said Another Idea sadly, unable to do what you seek to do.

The mind within the person within the sphere went all quiet again.

Suddenly, the head’s up display flickered into existence. Slowly, the person in the sphere turned to gaze at it. There was her ship, only a few thousand light years away. In mere seconds, She of the Trillion Faces would arrive, and all would be lost.

There it is! cried First Thought. Time and space! Mere seconds! All will have been for naught! Ha! Ha!

Do you truly see it? asked Another Idea.

Of course! Of course! howled First Thought. What a fool I’ve been! I must be the one who will stop her! Ha! I must stop her now or she will never be stopped! Ha! How many eons, how many millennia, how many centuries, how many decades, how many years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds? How many Planck-times in a never? How many nonillions of people in a universe? How many universes in a multiverse? But I am the only one upon whom all of fate turns!

Yes! said Another Thought with excitement at last. Say on!

But I am housed in an ephemeral body, the material existence of the universe in which I live, First Thought went on quietly. And so I will have lived and died—and I will have been meaningless. My will has no meaning unless I prevail here. I need my life to have had meaning, a meaning I can understand.

So close, lamented Another Idea.

The HUD twinkled with warning lights and an incoming message signal. Absently, the person in the little black sphere tapped a holobutton, and the message, in a military man’s voice, blared: “You faithless traitor! As soon as My Lady gives the sign, I will happily blast the sky clean of you! And then we will take The Source and fulfill our destiny!”

Listen to him, said Another Idea. He makes sense, does he not? He has a destiny, and it is part of His Lady’s destiny. He believes. And he believed you also to have been a part of that destiny. And he is angered that he was wrong. He has had feelings for you and ideas about you—and he is outraged! Now, your very existence threatens his destiny, and he knows how to deal with you.

Yes, returned First Thought, slowly, as if rising out of a long slumber. But His Lady hesitates. Why?

She is full of believers and unbelievers, replied Another Idea, and now she is full of doubts. She too is threatened by you, but she also fears that you know the way to pass through the door—and she does not want to lose that knowledge. If you contrive to go through first, the knowledge will slip her grasp. If she destroys you, the same. And you are protected against grappling, tractor beams, and teleporters. What can she do?

Seize the moment! Decide now! While you still exist within time and space, you must act before you lose the chance!

Do you believe what you think, or not?

Either way, responded First Thought, after what seemed an interminable time, I am likely to die today. Yes, I will die on whatever today it is here. I can die without having discovered the truth of my ideas, or I can pass on to a greater realm.

“Ship”, said the person in the sphere.

“Yes,” responded the sphere.

“Open exit aperture.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the sphere said placidly.

“Of course. Time and space. Safety constraints. Very well. I’ll wait.”

Suddenly, a great, silvery thing like a squashed ball appeared precisely 1.256 kilometers away. “You’re mine!” came a message into the little sphere. A ruby beam encased in sapphire lightnings lashed out into the void, and then there was only the great ship—and the tiny star.

Here we are, said FearAdjunct31, alive one moment—and the living dead now and forever.

What? responded The One.

Don’t be obtuse, growled FearAdjunct2.33. We know quite well. We’ve always known.

One little plasma beam, said FearAdjunct 31, and—poof! One little thing—corporeal life gone!

Is it heaven, said The One, blearily, or hell—or purgatory? Limbo? The moment between life and death?

We really aren’t as intelligent as we think, said FearAdjunct2.37. Tisk. Tisk.

Uncalled-for, responded FearAdjunct41.5. No need to destroy our ego.

She did a pretty good job of that already, replied FearAdjunct31.2.

Laughter.

We should have mercy, sobbed FearAdjunct4.

The quality of mercy is not strained, mocked FearAdjunct5.335.

Yes, answered PleasurePrinciple7. Mercy comes before death. There is no death here. There is no before or after. Let us rejoice!

A cacophony of laughter, singing and music.

Stop! cried The One. It’s all too much.

Stop! Stop! derided Ego-FearInterface28. It never started, moron! How could it end?

You know where you are, said Another Idea calmly.

It’s blacker than space here, shuddered The One, and so cold.

There is no here here, chided Another Idea.

It can’t be, answered The One.

I told you you weren’t ready to come through, stated Another Idea.

I was fried by a plasma beam! cried The One. This must be the moment-between-moments my great grandfather used to go on about. When the clock ticks off another Planck-time, this will end.

You never were a believer, said Another Idea sadly. All your ideas are just ideas, playthings for your mind. No matter how many times you prove with experience that ideas have reality, you don’t believe it.

I’ve had about enough of insults, insisted The One. I’m dead, dammit! I’m experiencing the last few firings of my vaporized neurons! In a moment—nothing! And thank whatever gods there are for that!

You know quite well that there are no clocks here, said Another Idea patiently. You also know that here is not here. You know that here is where all clocks are. You know that here is where all heres come from.

Deedle, deedle, deedle, whoopeeeeeee! said The One. You’re making my LAST MOMENT fun!

Very well, whispered Another Idea. It’s yours to discover.

Yes, said EgoConstruct21,693. How could we fail to understand? We have understood every other phenomenon we have ever encountered that was of interest to us.

Apparently not, replied LogicPremise40, or we could easily understand this.

Who asked you? inquired FearAdjunct5.334ConjoinedEgoConstruct21,690 brusquely. You LogicPremises are always sticking your arrogant noses into everything. You’re why we can’t understand!

Arrogance is irrelevant, responded LogicPremise40ConjoinedEgoConstruct39. Only data is relevant. Only empirical proofs obtain.

I’ve got some data for you, you twit, shouted FearAdjunct28.1, —we’re dead! D E A D! D-d-dead! Shove that up your input port and compute it!

Done, responded LogicPremise11-11.992ConjoinedLogicPremise285-285.3 Conjoined LogicPremises1034-1045, unperturbed. The body is dead. Another can be acquired, if desired.

Put it together, Dingus! laughed FearAdjunct5.308ConjoinedEgoConstruct21,960.

Augh! It’s too much! howled The One. Too many lights! Too many noises! Too many tactile sensations! Too many smells and tastes! I’m still in Hellllllll!!!!!!

Calm, said Another Idea. Calm. It’s all you. Do you understand?

Yes, yes, panted The One. This is the Hypesothesis! I am Master here. All possibilities are open to me.

Do you believe it? inquired Another Idea. Or is it just another idea?

It doesn’t matter whether I believe it, said The One. I am experiencing it. I have always experienced it. I have never been here before—but I’ve always been here. There is nothing here: everything originates here.

She’s here, isn’t she, asked The One.

Of course, replied Another Idea.

Having it all her way, stated The One.

Of course, Another Idea said. Just as are you.

I pity those whom she will torment for ever, said The One.

Yes, and I also pity those whom you will torment for ever, agreed Another Idea.

What? The One cried, outraged. I torment no one. I will never be a tormentor. I have always striven to prevent death, terror, and torment.

And often not succeeded, Another Idea countered quietly.

It was never my intention to cause harm, The One responded sullenly.

And she always intended to do more good than harm, stated Another Idea.

What am I doing right now? The One snapped.

Living and loving, lying and dying, truth-telling and killing, stealing, raping, and destroying, building, thinking, Another Idea replied calmly. What a person is always doing.

I’m conversing with you, The One answered with confusion. And thinking—none of those other things.

It’s interesting that before the Hypesothesis—that is, in the “real universe” “outside”—you knew what the Hypesothesis was, said Another Idea. Now, you are confused. You believe there is a here and a now, a space and a time. You believe that there are limits to what you say and do. What does this say of you?

I’m a human being, replied The One, limited by definition.

“Out there” admonished Another Idea, you are limited by the exigencies of material being. ‘In here’ you are limited by what you are ‘out there’. Because you insist on space and time, I will tell you that you will get over it. You have gotten over it. There was never anything to get over. You will never get over it.

If I had eyes, said The One, they’d be wobbling.

You do have eyes, chuckled Another Idea. Let them wobble. Or, you could pluck them out, if they offend you, just as that one fellow said. Or, you could make one red and one clear, if that will help you see better.

So you’re saying I can do and see and know anything? asked The One rhetorically. I’m God? But there’s no time and space? I will do everything because I can do everything. I’ve done everything already. I’m currently doing everything? But I’m not evil, dammit! I won’t do evil!

Do you think you are immune, just because you want to be? queried Another Idea. Do you think she started out wanting to be evil? Every possibility is open to you. Every possibility is incumbent upon you.

Unintended consequences? asked The One. Because all possibilities are open to me, and I’m limited in my ability to understand, I will try everything, hoping to avoid doing evil? Because there’s no time and space ‘here’, and I’ve always been here and always will be, I’ve already done it, so I can’t avoid it? I will do it? I am doing it?

You have said it, answered Another Idea.

But one of my attempts will come out without causing harm to anyone, won’t it? asked The One, plaintively.

An infinite number will turn out quite pleasantly, answered Another Idea. An infinite number will be the worst thing that could have happened.

I’ve won, but I’ll never win? asked The One, dejectedly.

That is your ego talking, chided Another Idea. That is why you didn’t get here without her help.

She’s here, too, The One stated. She did, is doing, will do, what I did, am doing, will do. It doesn’t matter how you get here, what you were like in physical life. It’s all the same.

If you say so, replied Another Idea.

IMMUNITY

I am an island.

I am alone.

A wide, impassible sea

Surrounds me and separates me from all undesired things.

I am not a tree.

I have no roots.

There was no seed to sprout me.

I need no soil to sustain me.

I have no branches.

There is a straight line from me to God.

And I do not grow—

Except to become bigger.

Thus, nothing diverges from me.

Nothing comes of what I do

Except my unswerving progress upward.

I have no leaves.

I need no sun to make my food.

The wind does not rustle me unbidden.

The seasons do not change me,

Except in whatever way I intend.

There are no other trees:

I said I am an island, dammit!

Rivers, tributaries, estuaries, lakes, oceans, clouds, rain, weather?

What is all this shit!

I am a HUMAN, dammit!

I am immune to anything I want to be immune to.

I am a rock.

I am a mountain.

I am a planet.

I am a universe.

I am all universes.

Really, I am alone.

I guess I must be God.

I do not need to listen to any of you.

Nothing you do can touch me.

You exist only if I allow it.

You cannot bend or break me, make me or unmake me.

Your significance is that which I assign you.

 

FIELDS OF CONFLICT

---

“Everything is everything, everywhere, and every time. And, for the omniscient, all this is known all-at-once.”—Hixtpa Ojiru Matarong Kollum

---

The Field of Coronad

In the year 1715 of Our Triumph, Coronad son of Prince Vorangel of Onemion sent the first scouts into the warm lands south of those claimed as the realm of Rocharost nine years before by Aemal, first nephew of Vorangel. Of these scouts only two returned, speaking tales of the gruesome sacrifice of their fellows under the knives of the heathen priests of the Araid. In righteous outrage Duke Coronad raised him up a grand army and marched with war upon the people of Ar’d-in-Narvel—which we now call Assiriand, the Land of Rivers. Aulid the Spellsinger am I, a humble minstrel of King Sethangel of Falarost, and I went in secret with that glorious host. I report now what I witnessed.

---

They fell back before us, remaining hidden in the hills, for the entirety of our hard, ten-day march out from the fortress of Gomannon on the southern borders of the New Realm. Yet one did not have the impression that they were at all afeared of us. They kept watch on us, and from time to time one would come in close enough to take a bowshot; the brave archer would often hit his mark and pass away unscathed ere we could make much of a response. The Captain kept us under a tight rein, for he knew that the beastly folk had hopes of provoking us so that we would spend our vigor, blood, and valor in a vain assault upon the hills.

The sky poured out rain upon us for long hours each day, and it grew perceptibly colder as we proceeded, and by the time we reached the temple and fortress of the Araid the rain changed to snow; we suspected heathen sorcery. The company with which I travelled did not complain about the weather, for their native land of Onemion is much colder and harder in the month of Gaerithron. But along with the cold, the oppression of our hearts increased as we approached the bleak hills surrounding the Great Temple of the Dwy-wydda, as the priests of the Araid call themselves. We did not so much dread to perish in battle, but we did harbor much trepidation that we might be captured and murdered as sacrifices to the devilrous gods of those beast-folk.

As we came nigh the tall black hills round about Orndak—as they call the city of the Great Temple—mighty bonfires sprang up from the hilltops, and we could hear howling when the wind was right. When we came round the foot of the last hill ere coming out onto the wide plain that lies before Orndak the host came to an abrupt halt in horror, for fifty wooden pillars ranged across the valley-field before the temple-fortress, and upon each of the pillars hung the mummified remains of one of the scouts that Captain Coronad had sent out. The empty eye sockets stared at us, and the voiceless mouths gaped open; the dead men seemed to be shouting at us to turn back before we met the same fate.

Seeing how our hearts began to falter, golden Coronad gathered us round him, heedless of what our enemies might do, thinking that our attention had turned from them. He spoke in his deep, melodious voice, and, to a man we gave to him our rapt attention. “My lords,” he said. “My stout-hearted people. Heed my words. But more, take heed of God! My words come into my heart at His prompting!

“What you have seen has struck dreadfully into even your brave hearts. But do not fear! Our poor fellows who hang here unshriven and dishonored nonetheless sit now feasting in Heaven under the mercy of Yathaw.

“You must go forth now in the sure knowledge that all the faithful who perish on the field before this pagan temple of devilry will go under the shield of our Great Lord! But let us marshal ourselves for the battle! Yathaw shall grant us the victory!”

A great cheer went up echoing into the cliffs surrounding the field before Orndak, borne, I thought, more of dread than of lust for battle. Yet the voice of the Captain had done its work, diverting our minds from the horror of the death-pillars. Our host arrayed itself splendidly and marched forward until darkness fell upon us completely, and we encamped in silence, without even the comfort of a fire, lest we make of ourselves a good mark for the archers of the Araid.

By the middle of the night the bonfires went out on the hilltops, and the howling ended at last, and all was silence. But before the dawn a mighty blaze sprang up before the gates of Orndak, and man-beast-shapes danced wildly about in a circle round about the conflagration. Balcath, one of the scouts who had returned out of this wicked land, told us that this was a ritual like to our vigil upon the night before setting out for battle. The captains of the Araid leapt about, mumbling prayers to their war-gods, and from time to time passing their weapons through the fire. When the light of the morning sun began to grow in the east the Araid gave a thunderous shout and rushed out from the gates into the field, their gilded war chariots, each carrying a Dwy-wydd priest brandishing a scimitar, in the fore.

The first engagement was swift and fierce. Many died in the onrush of the chariots. Many more were picked up and carried alive back into the city. While we were in disarray the spearmen of our foe surged forward and clove deep into our ranks. Coronad called us to withdraw and led us out from the field. Never had we seen a foe fight with such abandon and singularity of purpose.

Later in the day, as we were counting our losses, a small company of riders issued from the gates of the city. They rode under the blue flag of truce, and so we suffered their approach. Their leader was called Fallon, the High Chief of the Araid, and he invited us back to the field, under a truce, to a feast, for the morrow was a day important to the unholy gods of his people. The Captain, long it seemed, pondered whether he should answer yea or nay, wondering what unwholesome things these folk might do on a holy day. He at last agreed, hoping to learn more of our foes. What is more, he had just received the word that only four thousands of our original five thousands remained to us. We would never have taken Orndak from without, save by a miracle of the Lord.

Ere the sun arose again we went forth into the field, armed only with long knives, as we had been instructed. Tables had already been set and laden with mead and honey-cake. None of the Araid were to be seen and we were uncertain what we should do, whether we should stand by patiently and await our hosts or whether it would be impolite to sit and partake. The Captain decided we should be seated and eat and hope for the best.

At dawn a great shout went up, and the war chariots thundered out from the gates of Orndak. We feared that we had been betrayed or that we had given offense. But the Araid warriors encircled us in a wide ring of horses and chariots, and they leapt down and planted their spears at our feet. (We had arisen, ready to sell our lives as dearly as we could with little armor and only long knives.) They beheld us and laughed, grasping our hands and slapping our backs. Then the warriors and priests sat down, and we did the same, and serving-women and children came with carts and wains full of food and drink.

The Araid, heathen though they were, were nothing as we had imagined them. They were friendly and full of mirth, and they praised us for our courage. They ate and drank as fiercely as they fought, and they kept pushing platters heaped with breads and roast meats at us. They seemed now less like beasts and more like men, full of the wisdom of the World, knowledgeable in the arts of healing and of science. But the Captain remained wary, for they were nonetheless a backward people, and the motives of their gods were not to be trusted.

And he was right to look askance upon them, for considering the seeming temperament of our hosts, we were wholly unprepared for the ending of the festivities. Near the setting of the sun, after much merry-making and many speeches and pagan praying, the soldiers who had been captured the previous day by the Araid were brought forth. The Araid spearmen took up their spears and pointed them at us, and the women and children came among us swiftly and snatched our long knives from us. The captives were strapped to the great wheels of the chariots, and with our own knives the evil priests cut the living hearts out from the breasts of their prisoners and held them up, still beating, to the sky. The dying screams of our poor fellows will never leave us.

Captain Coronad cried out in anguish and raised up his rod of authority. “Oh, mighty Lord Yathaw!” he cried. “In the name of Justice, I beg of you to destroy these defilers! Take us also if it is your will, but do not let such as these see the dawn of another day!”

Within moments the earth began to shake under our feet and thunder burst up from under the earth. Taking this as a sign from God we grappled with the Araid warriors in their dismay, and we won weapons enough to make a good fight. Terror was turned back upon them, and their screaming horses raced among us kicking and stamping, and we slew them in heaps, for we were heartened by God, and they could not resist us.

The Miracle of 1715 won us the land of Ar’d-in-Narvel, and they say the Miracle could be felt a thousand miles away, even in my own city of Aron Assir. King Sethangel smiled even as the stone trembled beneath his throne, and Prince Vorangel called for a day of feasts, for they knew from afar that a new land had come under the dominion of the Great People.

---

The Field of Valwyn

This is the Book of Paloryawn, the book written in the secret places of the Reserved Land that men call in the Common Speech the Ring of Iron, for the hills are red and men mine them for ore. I was the Thwythwath of King Valwyn, and I sang the songs of our people, and I praised our mighty warriors with great praise in the times before the world became cold to us. The world is all gone grey now, and proud folk live now in the shadows, and the sun shines only for folk of foreign lands. I will that the Awrwth-wn-Nwuwuld shall not be a people entirely forgotten, lost in the New Way of a pale and wicked world, and so I have invented a means to record speech, as do the invader-folk, but with different signs, clean signs and undefiled with their foreign thoughts and their unnatural God. I set forth here all the long and bright history of our people, and I will teach my signs to an apprentice that later generations should see us as we were and as we have become. And it may be that one day they will look on the world and recall the glory that was, and they will find the means to summon back the Old Gods to their proper places and overthrow the foreign Tyrant God who now rules all.

******************

The Year of the Great Sorrow

The Yule-feast came and went as it had always done, the power of the spent sun was made new again, and the Thwythwathin found no omens to bode ill for the Awrwth-wn-Nwuwuld. But the gods were not attending the world as they should in that year, for they were locked in a struggle against the Invader God who is strong and cruel to all save his own folk. The gods must never be held in blame for the terror which came upon their people, for they are more ancient than the ever-young Tyrant God, and even gods may weary after a hundred hundred centuries of toil.

In the early spring when the buds were starting to come on the trees and bushes, before even the grass came to its full green, the women and children went out gathering firewood and prodding for squirrel-caches as they always have, and they saw unknown men coming down out of the Cold North. Rangers were sent out to watch them. These men stayed in the shadows and travelled mostly by night, but on cloudy days they would walk in the woods and high grass thinking themselves clever and unobserved. But as they drew nigh to the Temple of the Sun and Moon at Awrhandach-anwn-yp-Nwuwuld the rangers began to capture them one by one in the dark of the night as they were prowling and all men were asleep, or so they thought. The alien scouts numbered fifty-two, of which fifty were brought in and two escaped to tell the tale to their masters.

These sneak-abouts were questioned gently, and they would not talk. So they were questioned with more vigor, and still they would not talk. King Valwyn found he had no choice save to deny them food and drink for a time in order to change their thinking, and when he at last gave them to eat and drink the wise-women brought them mead and bread infused with their special herbs. The alien men were not used to such food and drink, and much information was got out of them thereby. King Valwyn learned all about the schemes of the Northmen, how they had already overthrown the Uthraiti and the Kalliach north of the Long River, and the Awrwth-wn-Nwuwuld made themselves ready for war.

The alien men were drowned in Ballorin Bog that our land might be cleansed of them and in the same stroke Ballorin-huain be sated with their vigor and look on his people with kind eyes. And then the dead were hung up on the Plain of Battle before the gates of the Temple of the Sun and Moon so that when the invader host came they would know what had become of their spies. All the ancient forms were to be honored, even in dealings with the invader foe, lest the gods should think courtesy forsaken out of fear for the needs of the day.

King Valwyn did not know rightly where lay the land of the Northmen from which the spies came. The places of the Uthraiti and the Kalliach lay two hundreds of miles or so from the battlefield of Awrhandach-anwn-yp-Nwuwuld where it was his plan to do battle with the foe that was oncoming. But the spies had spoken of places that were in the Far North in countries where surely the ice was unceasing. Thus, the king did not know how long it would be ere his warriors would see battle. He did not send scouts and spies far afield lest they be captured by Northmen and his strength and disposition be made clear to the foe. There were many feasts in those days of waiting, for custom dictated that stores be laid up for the celebration and sacrifice which would follow that glorious battle, but the spring months rolled by into the summer, and the food and drink would have gone stale and been a displeasure to the gods had it not been consumed. Thus many times were stores gathered, and then consumed in festival, ere the foe arrived at last in late summer. The cost of many feasts and keeping a host of warriors at the ready was very great to King Valwyn, but he bore his duty as a king should.

The time came at last, and the host of the foe came across the Long River and entered into the lands of the Awrwth-wn-Nwuwuld. These foemen were an insult, a ragged lot, farmers and bakers dredged up out of the countryside by the look of them, and numbering no more than a few hundreds. Their captain must not have thought much of his opponent, having brought an ill-equipped mob to overthrow a nation. But King Valwyn did not await them for so long in order to be discourteous to them, whatever they may have thought of King Valwyn and his folk. The king obeyed all the forms of war and courtesy to foes. The archers of Awrwth-wn-Nwuwuld made displays of their courage and skill, but they did not slay all the foe’s rabble as they might, for it is not polite that the foe not be met weapon-to-weapon at least once before his defeat.

They were not great in number, and they were not well-trained, but they were over-proud, holding their own race more worthy than all other men. They had no thought that they could be bested, for they and their One God were great, and the Awrwth-wn-Nwuwuld were no more than a nuisance, a pack of miscreants, to be swept aside in their quest to force themselves and their corrupt ways upon the entire world. But when they came upon the posts in the field of Awrhandach-anwn-yp-Nwuwuld, the foemen nearly fled back to their icy homes. Their captain managed to hold them to their purpose with some clumsy words, but King Valwyn was very disappointed by this enemy, the poorest his people had ever battled with. Nonetheless, the king held firm to his own purpose, and the rituals were observed through the night and before the next dawn.

Then came the battle, such as it was. The foemen’s captain did what he could to set his rabble in order, and then King Valwyn let loose upon him with the first assault of chariots. It was clear that his enemy had no experience in battle, let alone in battle with wheeled vehicles, and it was almost shameful to make war with them. So the king was merciful to them, taking only a few captives and never unloosing the second wave of spearmen and swordsmen. Greatly diminished, with many wounded and dead, the enemy limped away from the field in dismay, and King Valwyn let them go.

His own dead and wounded were very few, but there were some who would sail into the West to the Happy Isle, and so the king vowed to do honor to a foe brave but little skilled and with a poor leader. The feast of Gillyol-naer-laough-on-Maddych was laid out before the next dawn, and the foe were summoned. Karmat, so we were told to call him, came out of hiding in the thickets north and east of the field with only half his remaining folk. This was the second insult, and the third was soon to come, for this upstart and his following actually sat down to table and consumed the gods’ portion even before the priests could come out and make the prayer. Yet this enemy was obviously so ignorant of the ways of his selected foe that King Valwyn forgave all and resolved to go on with the ancient rites.

Out he came with the stuff of the mortals’ portion and made the customary ring of carts and wains to mark the bounds between divine and worldly, and the enemy rabble actually drew their knives and made ready for battle. These creatures were stupid, but at least they had some courage, and King Valwyn laughed off the fourth insult and the feast went on as planned.

The feasting went well enough for the remainder of the day, until it was nigh sunset and time for the Second Portion of the gods. King Valwyn’s people actually had to take the knives away from the enemy rabble in order to make the sacrifice of the captives. This fifth insult was hard to bear, but the king did not slay them instantly for their ignorance. Apparently, the only blood the Northmen ever spilt out to their God was that of other peoples, and so they were ignorant of righteous ways. The king was about to summon forth his own sacrifices to add to the shedding of the captive foemen when Karmat set up a screaming fit in his alien tongue.

It was then that the earth began to shake and the stone-thunder began to howl, and King Valwyn and his people knew by this sign that the Old Gods had been overthrown by the Usurper God in his wrath. So saddened were the warriors of Awrwth-wn-Nwuwuld that they let the foe take their weaponry from them and slay many as they fled the bucking field as best they could. In the confusion after the earth-shaking Karmat and his bandits took many women and priests as hostages, armed as they were with the best weapons in the land. And there was nothing left for King Valwyn to do but to await the arrival of a fresh host of foes out of the North, and then to surrender his country to the usurpers and their Tyrant God.

The bandit-leader Karmat became a king, and the proud Awrwth-wn-Nwuwuld went into the shadows with their gods. Karmat shut them up in the bloody Iron Ring where they would become miners of ore. The Awrwth-wn-Nwuwuld were forbidden to make any goods out of their ore, for fear they might burst forth out of the Reserved Land and take back what is theirs, so they are now a pauper-people, and they make a few extra coins on the old feast days putting on pageants for alien eyes and ears, making mock of the ancient rites of the True Gods.

THE GREAT MUSIC

The Unheard Song

Sweet notes both sad and glad,

Proud, yet shot with humility,

Shaping

Moon and sun and stars and earth

And tree and man and fish and bird

Releasing,

That they might shape further days

And hear the many songs in the cosmos

Melding,

Intermingling and not knowing it,

Songs like rivers flowing into one sea,

Playing,

Each harmony and discord tributary

To the one long, thrilling, haunting music,

Echoing

Down the wide halls and corridors of eternity

Only for their own surcease and pleasure,

Revealing

Some purpose even the singers do not know

At the farthest ends of time.

The Song Heard

The days leap and frolic by,

And night dances, slow, quiet,

Serene,

Sleepers waken in a new sun

And slumber again under a new moon,

Perpetually,

And continually all the way back

Through all the days been and reckoned,

Remembered,

And tolled to the day before days

Before the day when gods were young,

Unravelling

The tangled webs and designs

That give form to all that is,

Travelling

Back to the opening hour,

When nothing became something,

Binding

Nonexistent threads to make a

Nonexistent cloth and tapestry,

Realizing,

And in the same stroke proving

Possibility creates ought from naught,

Ravelling

Threads of nothing into something

By the mere force of what might be,

Weaving

The notes of a song to be sung

Where none was heard before

Spreading.

THE INTENTIONAL CITY

---

“Part, all, or none of what the mind perceives may be truth. Part, all, or none of what the voice says may be truth.”—Hixtpa Ojiru Matarong Kollum

---

It was about half an hour before Sleep Period, and a few grey-clad people were passing by the Department of Mental Hygiene, eyed by a small cadre of helmeted MetroGuards armed with punishment staves that glowed at both ends like dying embers. The people passing to their appointments were always quiet, but they were especially silent near what was essentially the execution processing center for the Incorrigible. The adults coming near put their heads down and quickened their steps. Even the children could sense something appallingly awesome here, and they tended to stare at the smooth, black, windowless walls, mouths agape, feet stumbling.

Suddenly, the oppressive peace was shattered as people exploded out of a converging street, singing, shouting, turning cartwheels, running willy-nilly. They were a strange offense, with their bright faces and their colorful, loose-fitting clothing, and those looking on were stunned and stopped in their tracks, heedless of the approaching deadline of Sleep Period. Even the well-trained MetroGuards were taken aback, agog, eyes blinking in disbelief.

There were dozens of intruders, capering, dancing, merry-making. They made an excellent distraction from the two people who rounded the corner after them, both clad in black, the one tall, slim, and ruggedly handsome, crowned like a king in golden hair, and the other smaller, darker, less trim, but strangely even more beautiful and more potent, a woman of utterly regal bearing. The both of these incongruous persons carried in their hands small, grey sacks. They reached into these and withdrew small, grey cans. These they hurled aloft, and attentive hands snatched them from their air, and eager bodies sprang to the obsidian walls of the Department of Mental Hygiene, which was swiftly adorned with these many-hued words: “Who would cage the wind? The sun frees the breeze. What kind of power has replaced the sun?”

And as the bystanders pondered the enigmatic words and their inscrutable meaning, and as the MetroGuards gawked their confused vigilance, the two coordinators reached again into their bags and withdrew cords hung with multitudes of tiny cylinders, which they lobbed amongst the onlookers. The walls and sidewalks echoed with popping concussions punctuated by startled gasps and screams. The bystanders fled, and the MetroGuards scattered hither and thither, launched finally into functionality by an action they thought they understood. They flailed away at their perceived attackers, inflicting pain upon the cavorting crowd, who refused to cease their revel, and who refused to fight back.

In the one-sided melee, the commanding pair approached the one MetroGuard who maintained his post under the lintel of the unlit main entrance of the Department of Mental Hygiene. This MetroGuard stood firm and observant, yet he seemed somehow to be in flux, like a sheet of paper stuck to the event horizon of a black hole, on the surface appearing to be fully present, but within being continually, eternally drawn down to utter oblivion. He turned his helmeted head toward those approaching him, but he did not seem to truly see them. Even as the golden man lifted his visor, grasped the helmet’s ear-pieces, and then leaned in and planted a passionate kiss upon his lips, the MetroGuard made no obvious response. Only as the beautiful man withdrew did the MetroGuard’s gaze begin to focus, but even as he came to recognize what had happened to him, his body went slack and he began to collapse. The golden man and the raven-haired woman caught the MetroGuard as he fell, and they drew him back toward the street from which they had come. Just then, sirens could be heard from not too far away.

---

A little girl in a pink dress, clutching the red purse that hung by a strap from her shoulder, her shiny, black shoes clicking on the pavement, made her way down the dreary street. The street was a twilit ravine raggedly, but orderly cloven through sixty storeys of dull concrete. Though the intermittent chronometers claimed that Day was waking and carousing, the sky above seemed the blackest shade of blue, and the street lamps were doing their level best to bore through the unseen grey aether. So, except for the blazing hues of the little girl, this day was the same as the thousands that had preceded it, the vanguard of an army of yet duller days passing by on their way to the sure victory of time over space and energy.

As she came round the corner that let onto her home street, she was taken and shaken by a new thing: a surprise! A surprise in hues of delightful red, green, blue, and white loomed high over her little head. She was frightened and fascinated, as if the signboard above her was a tiger suspended in mid-leap as it came on her by ambush to rend her limb from limb, a thing both beautiful and terrible, an unforeseeable anomaly in a world of strict outlines and marching phalanxes. But seeing that the sepia people droning by paid the sign no never mind, she calmed enough to read the writing spattered across its marvelously untamed surface. YOU ARE THE SALT OF THE EARTH, read the sign, BUT IF ALL THE FLAVOR IS GONE, HOW WILL THE SALT GET BACK ITS JAZZ AND PIZZAZZ?

Greatly disquieted, unsure that she understood what she was seeing, the little girl reached into her little purse and withdrew a little shard of chocolate and popped it into her mouth right there on the street. The shambling people stopped, turned, and stared for several moments as she sucked and savored. Then they turned away. A few minutes later, just as she approached 221.3876, her apartment building, a black van pulled up sharply. Four large men popped smartly out the back, filed up, towering on either side of her, and, taking hold of her little arms, escorted her quickly inside.

“Oh, officers,” said her mother in dull excitement. “I don’t know what made her do it. I don’t know how she did it. We don’t know people who dispense contraband.”

“First offense,” said the sergeant robotically. “She gets a warning.” Looking down at the little girl, he commanded, “Consider yourself warned.” Turning back to the mother, “The Engender on premises receives twenty hours of readjustment. Come along.”

“What about my Offspring?” The mother enquired un-vigorously.

“The illicit substance has been confiscated,” replied the sergeant. “The regulations have no further concern for her. Come along.”

---

The MetroGuard more or less awoke to find himself floating along on an opioid cloud of blissful indifference. Even the dank odors that seemed to permeate him and everything around him in the soothing, echoing darkness were apathetically rapturous. The dreamy insouciance was disturbed from time to time by a momentary, jolting turbulence that seemed to punctuate the susurrant murmuring that wafted gently into his languid brain. Intermittent, wan, sometimes blinky luminescences wormed their way into him from his feet, up his legs, caressed his crotch for fleeting moments, passed on through his innards, and then sprang out through the waving hairs atop his head. What’s happened to my helmet? his brain asked him lazily. Do the dead wear helmets? replied his soul after a long delay. Soul? Antiquated notion of the time before the real world. Pabulum for children. Humanity has grown up and left the world of dreams and ideologies behind. Souls are dusty cobwebs. He heard soft chuckling, but he was unsure whether it emanated from within or without.

“Oh, hello,” said a soft, possibly female voice nearby. “Our baby is returning from his nap.” More chuckling.

“Awww,” said another voice, this one a little higher-pitched, but with an unsettling, condescending edge. “Did we disturb his esteemed repose? Perhaps we could make amends by sending him back to slumber land.” A short, barking laugh followed.

His mouth wanted to shout, “No! I must remain awake and aware! I must do my duty!” But his brain simply didn’t care enough to work his glottal muscles.

“Okay,” said the soft voice, “he’s with us. I think it’s time to give it to him.” The lights continued to pass him by, but now they seemed to have sources that hung somewhere above him, and they appeared to be guiding him toward something, perhaps a revelation... But then he felt a slight jostle, and he returned to a more grounded reality. A revelation? Yes, maybe the source of this disruption will be revealed to me—and then escape—to do my duty to the Soul.

“Yes,” agreed the condescending voice, “let’s let him have it. This we will give to the man who has everything.” The voice chuckled harshly.

“Now, now,” replied the soft voice. “Let us be decent to the man. Decency is his meaning in life.”

“Ha! Yes!” retorted the condescending voice. “He is full of it. He and all his people are filled to bursting with ‘decency.’ They are guided and goaded with decency all their lives, and they call it the common good.” Though the MetroGuard could see no faces, no voice could have more potently conveyed a resentful sneer.

“Hm,” said the soft voice. “The biggest trouble is that they conflate decency with goodness. But what is decency? And what does it require?”

Mmmm, snarled the inner voice of the MetroGuard as he became certain that he had been chosen to receive some rehearsed terrorist diatribe.

“To be decent,” answered the condescending voice, “is to go along to get along. It’s to be ‘tolerant.’ It’s to fully indulge the desire for bodily self-preservation, no matter the cost to the inner self, the self that requires fairness, justice, satisfaction, and purpose. Service to the material becomes purpose. All is done in the service of preserving decency. Everyone gets along, and that is all that matters. And thus we find ourselves in our predicament. Your decency will be the death of us—but your decency will trudge stubbornly, meaninglessly on.

“They assembled one-hundred forty-four thousand of the most decent people they could find and made a world of them. They gave the world only one goal—function! They launched this world of profound getting along, and it has maintained its purpose to the strictest tolerances for six generations. And here we are, watching in horror as decency comes to its destructive culmination.”

“But destruction can be good,” rejoined the soft voice. “That is how those who sit in self-satisfaction, watching the progress of their little world can say that this decency is good. This decent little world removes wildness, the great obstacle to constructive abstraction, from the path of progress. Those who look on with patient excitement will soon be free to remake vast regions in the image of their decency.”

“Oh, the orgasmic self-actualization!” said the condescending voice in a violent whisper. “The mighty are made mightier by their will to remove all hindrance to themselves. And the decent serve the holy purpose of decency!”

What is all this insane babbling? What are they going on about? Decency? Goodness? What has this got to do with the terrorist agenda? I suppose it is not so strange that these creatures attacked the Department of Mental Hygiene. I wonder how many brothers and sisters have gloriously rendered their Final Service. I must escape these monsters! He was unsure if he had spoken his thoughts aloud; he hoped not. He was only sure that his paralyzed muscles twitched a little as he struggled to get away.

“Monsters, he says!” cried the condescending voice. “We! It is we who are the monsters, according to this child of invasion.”

“We expected as much,” responded the soft voice. “He is of a culture of enforcement. He believes decency is good and goodness is betrayal. He knows nothing, and must be forgiven. We must abide by the Consensus if we hope to weather this storm.

“Goodness,” she said after a moment spent intaking air, “is the question. What is goodness?” The MetroGuard could tell her attention was fixed back on him.

“Delineating goodness to the decent is like explaining the calculus to a housecat. If you are lucky, she will curl up in your lap and fall asleep. If you are unlucky, she will spit and hiss at you, and flee into a dark corner. Most likely, she will yawn, stretch, and then saunter off to be bored elsewhere.

“Yes, the languages of goodness and decency are not compatible. The former demands nothing, acts of its own accord, and hopes for everything. The latter demands everything, regulates all action, and eschews hope in favor of maintenance.”

Do the good assault the MetroGuard? Do the good take hostages?

“Well, there we had a problem,” responded the condescending voice. “The Consensus deliberated long on that, or we might have acted sooner. How to do what must be done causing the least damage to you? How to save ourselves while exerting our wills against you in the smallest, most subtle, and most effective way? And how to gain your approval, if we could? But how could this be done? We find it so difficult to speak in your language of distractive abstraction. We had to speak with you in the simplest tongue available to us.”

Why must you continue to insult me, Terrorist? What do you want? In what way do you wish me to betray The City in order to do GOOD?

“Terrorist?” hissed the condescending voice. “He comes in the guise of Death and says, ‘terrorist?’ His ‘city” comes with utter destruction, and he says we offer betrayal when we ask that the monster turn aside. These creatures have no comprehension of reason. We should simply exert ourselves upon this one and have done.”

“You must forgive,” said the soft voice. The MetroGuard was unsure to whom she spoke.

“My companion believes that no matter how we proceed we employ methods of coercion, and this angers him. In his proper element, he is as gentle as the morning breeze. But he does not believe that we can reach Consensus with this City, and since we must defend ourselves against you, he thinks we should act harshly, decisively, and, most of all, swiftly, so that we can return to the Consensus and cleanse ourselves of this distasteful business.”

Slowly, his vocal cords like grinding rust in his partially paralyzed throat, the MetroGuard asked, “Why do you keep insisting that my City of Peace is intent on doing harm? We have achieved a state of well-guarded harmony. It is you rogues and terrorists who wish to unbalance the state and bring harm.”

“He is a parrot,” said the condescending voice. “Give him a cracker. Better yet, give him a seed bell, and he will try to ring it to sound the alarm.”

The soft voice chose to ignore her companion. “Well, now we come back to it—my lecture on goodness. I will try. We will see if you are able to reason.”

When she did not begin right away, the MetroGuard felt a howl rising in his ragged throat—but his overworked muscles seized again, and only a whimper came out. The strain as he tried again and again to scream overwhelmed him, and he drifted back into semi-consciousness. When he awoke, he heard the soft voice in this midst of its lecture. “...Goodness is faith that existence will go on fine without you, but that you are nonetheless very much wanted. Goodness is the oneness of the self with all selves. Goodness notices differences of form, coloration, composition, location, and function, but it cannot notice differences of self from self. Goodness knows that differences in point of view are only separations in space and time and function among entities in the Great Being, just as in the body the heart might argue with the lungs, or the anal sphincter, or the nail on the left great toe about which of them is most crucial to the life of the body, and which functions its function with greatest alacrity and efficiency. But the organs of the body do not argue, though they may experience dysfunctional disharmonies, for they are not capable of abstraction. It is abstraction that sees differences of form and function as separation of self from self—and this is the root of evil, for the self seeks advantage for itself. Goodness sees abstraction as a sword with two edges: an edge that functions as a tool to aid in the discovery of the deep truths, separating out entity from entity to examine it more fully, and an edge that distracts from truth, causing delusion, separating out and leaving out of context. When abstraction enables us to see the infinite levels of existence, that our level of sensory experience is only one of innumerable levels on which existence is experienced, we come closer to the utter sanity of true understanding. When abstraction causes us to see only lines of demarcation, life separate from life, immobile as non-living, flowing as at war with stationary, that-which-is-my-point-of-view as other than that-which-is-your-point-of-view, we come closer to insanity and hate, and violent conflict. Evil is the submission or subversion of the self to one or more Other entities, or the enforcement of such submission or subversion, for this enforces a false reduction of the elements of existence. It is the mistaken belief that a reduction of difference has been achieved and that, therefore, an increase of efficient, cohesive action is generated and maintained—and the world is now safe and predictable. Goodness is the acknowledgement that that-which-is-me has its peculiar point of view, its necessary difference of form, coloration, composition, location, and function. It knows that these differences are integral to the existence of existence by virtue of the fact that that-which-is-me exists—and this acknowledgement acknowledges the same of all ‘other’ entities perceived and not perceived. Goodness seeks Consensus. Evil seeks submission.”

The MetroGuard thought she would never cease her incomprehensible ‘lecture.’ When she did, the sudden silence shocked him. But it was not actual silence, only the cessation of her speaking. Her voice was replaced with a rhythmic drone, higher pitched, lower pitched, higher pitched, lower pitched, and powerful enough to make his body vibrate like the after-effects of an electric shock.

“We are coming close to the source and apex of your City,” said the condescending voice quietly, somehow cutting through the increasing noise. “You will soon discover, or refuse to, the reason for our being here.”

“The Consensus selected you because you are both part of the authority-structure of The City and almost rejected by it for your duties,” said the soft voice, inexplicably making itself understood. “Of all, you have the point of view most amenable to comprehension. Here. You must be mobile again. We must climb a long climb.”

A shadow leaned over the face of the MetroGuard. Soft lips pressed over his lips for a long moment. A sweet fragrance suffused his lungs. He found that his limbs and his throat were invigorated. He sat up, and his vision cleared.

He found himself sitting on a litter, completely unclothed, in a dimly-lit place next to a grey, steel ladder that seemed to progress upward to infinity. To his left, also dimly-lit yet somehow completely visible was the most tall and beautiful man he had ever seen, gazing down on him with the eyes of a searching eagle. But it was not the eyes that daunted him: it was the fact that the end of the most perfect penis was dangling next to him at eye level—and this sight was stirring in him the most uncomfortable feelings that he had been forcefully warned (with many threats of severe penalty) never to allow himself to feel. Yes, the perfectly-made man was standing nude and proud right next to the MetroGuard.

Quickly, he looked to his right and saw the most astonishing, unclothed woman, slightly overweight by his standard, and more compellingly beautiful than all the tall, thin, strict MetroGuard women he had ever encountered. How could he think her forbidden tattoos and undisciplined pulchritude attractive in any way? But he did, and the enigma of the words engraved into her flesh only made her more desirable. And he looked down and saw himself looking up.

The man and the woman were looking in that direction also, smiling.

“That is hopeful,” said the man, his voice a little less condescending. “But there is no time to indulge it now.”

“Yes,” said the woman. “Maybe later we can see how capable you are of physical immersion. If we have time, da Bird uh Paradise gonna test you good!” She laughed, and the MetroGuard jerked his hands to cover his shame.

“None of that,” said the man. “You’ll need those for the climb.”

---

In the air-conditioned, conspicuously clean room, the mauve room (since mauve had been determined to be the color most conducive to male calm), sat the group of ten-year-old boys. There they sat, in a circular cluster of comfy chairs, headphones clamped tightly to their immobile, perfectly combed heads. There they sat, their distant eyes transfixed to the universal viewpoint holoprojector. Companies of Napoleonic soldiers marched cheerfully and devoutly toward each and every boy simultaneously. And then the battle of Austerlitz was outlined in various stages before their uninquisitive little eyes. And then the misery of the French retreat from Moscow. And then the glorious, but inevitable defeat at Waterloo. And then these words appeared, “Courage” (in red), and (in blue) “And the Wisdom to Know When to Quit.”

“Duty,” “Responsibility,” “Patience,” “Loyalty,” “Love,”, and “Obedience.” Each came into being in the holodisplay, small at first, but growing larger and larger—until they were replaced by the next word. The boys downloaded it with their dead eyes, except for the raven-haired, dark boy whose left hand drifted up, whose fingers absently twiddled a lock of his slightly curly hair.

Pictures of heroic men and women heroically holding heroic tools. The passive boys filed it away. The brown boy began to vigorously, unconsciously scrub at his scalp with two fingers. The left corner of his mouth curled a little, and the left corner of his left eye took on an intermittent microtwitch.

Great buildings, orderly buildings, edifices of uniform shape and conformant hue, varying only in height according to hierarchic importance, rose in the center of the conformant room. The uniform boys, biological edifices all, sat quietly, riveted as the Planning Committee had designed. The brown boy, the dark boy, the boy approaching the limits of healthy, tolerable behavior, began to tug at his curls, and his brow furrowed, and his black eyes glared, and the corners of his mouth curved up, his teeth bared in a rictus grin.

The sky over The City blackened. The stark, fluorescent lights flared on in the tightly ordered lanes in the middle of the scoured, comforting room. Spaced at regular intervals, alone or in regular groups of not more than four, regular people appeared, wearing regulation clothing of subdued color and form, and moved at regulated paces to their regulated places. The brown boy poked furiously at his temple with his middle finger. His skull-grin opened into a silent, strangled, strangling howl. He ripped himself out of his dark blue comfortable chair. The holoprojection flickered and fluctuated for a brief moment and then corrected itself. The boy whipped about, still soundlessly screaming, his hands now curled into raptor’s claws, clutching the air near his widespread thighs. He was facing his Facilitator, prepared for rapturous battle. But, unready for inconceivable mutiny, the Facilitator was also ensconced and unaware in a mighty inviting chair. It took a moment to register, but the boy perceived that the way was open to escape, and he flashed to the door, muscles on the few patches of his exposed flesh straining out, his movements jerky like a poorly-mastered marionette. A few ragged steps, and a little whipcord monster was unloosed upon the unwary City.

Part of him, a small part tucked in somewhere just in front of the base of his brain, was sure that a sensor would be aware of him, and that soon a Monitor would be along to unceremoniously scrape him up and float him to the Director. No! Not this time! A plan, like the flea-scratching of a Primitive, began to itch at him, and dormant instincts began to awaken, guiding him by Mystery long solved through the halls, storerooms, workrooms, and ducts out of the Place of Guidance and into the Place of Forbiddance. (At least at this hour, for him, the streets were verboten.) He was in more danger of Aggressive Guidance Measures out here than he was in there, where it was most likely only his Facilitator would be seriously Sanctioned for the lapse of control. And, no matter how soon or late he was caught—and he certainly would be caught—his Engenders would surely receive significant Reduction of Privilege and Refacilitation for making this breach possible. It was obvious, after all, that they were not loyal and diligent enough, apparently not having spent enough of their meager Non-Commitment time passing on their Metropolitanism to their Ward.

So, the boy fled here, and he fled there, and he fled some more, and he fled he knew not where, flitting from penumbra to penumbra between the ever-vigilant street lamps. It was terrifying and exhilarating and dreamlike, and he could not say how he fell into an unlocked, rickety door, and on into a near-midnight, dusty, untraveled litter-collector hall, but that was where his headlong flight ended as he came up in a cloud of dust and must at a door, an obscene door of some unknown, ancient-looking material, with a somehow lurid staring eye pictured on it. He waved his grimy hand in front of the door, but it did not open. He had to get to see the things on the other side of this door, so he tried to force it open, but no matter in which direction he pushed at it it would not reveal to him the Mystery of the Other Side—though it did rattle frustratingly.

In desperation, he pounded at the contemptible door. Not long after, he heard a shuffling from the Mystery Side, and someone issued a couple of wet coughs. How is this person not Incinerated? The boy hoped he didn’t die from exposure to the malignant narcissist who had not turned him- or herself in for the crime of illness, but he burned to see into the Mysterious Darkness beyond this door, so he endured this new fear.

He heard sliding and clicking, and he thought that perhaps the door-opening mechanism was malfunctioning. But then the door swung weakly open, creaking and grinding, revealing a barely-outlined, slightly hunched figure of Terrible Mystery, barely taller than he was.

It was very dark on the other side. It was as if everyone who lived here was on Sleep Period even though it was the middle of Service Period. Only a few LEDs twinkled in the deep greyness, and so the even darker figure standing before the boy was the personification of Night. The boy could see no eyes, but the head seemed to be oriented in his direction, and terror thrilled him under the affliction of the eyeless gaze. And when the shadow-person coughed, the boy’s courage almost broke, and he started to wheel about to flee for dear life. But the hack was followed by a wheeze like some steam pipe letting off a little pressure, and the human frailty of the hunched figure reached him, stopped him in mid-pivot. Courage returned—at least enough of it—and he said in a dry, weak whisper, “I must see.”

For a heart-stopping moment, there was no response. But then, in a wheezing croak, the wizened figure replied: “Yes. You must.” It then turned slowly and shuffled back into the star-speckled darkness, leaving confounded alarm in its shambling wake.

At first the young one could not will his feet to step, or his lungs to breathe, and he nearly collapsed. But with a sharp intake of air, he smelled alien smells—something sweet and acrid, and something musky with undertones like those of his female Engender, only more pleasant. The attractive fragrance, so strangely—and somehow aptly—overlaid onto this place of horror, drew him, step by step, into its Great Mystery.

The staccato trudge inward, head down, bobbing on a creaky floor behind the intriguing, repellent nothingness of the hunchback creature seemed an unabridged eternity of clogged heartbeats and air-starved, rasping breaths. But at least no more shuffling could be heard, and there seemed to be a bright circle in the floor, dazzling after the deep twilight of the long walk. Feeling the compulsion to bring up his head, like that of the condemned man when the hangman springs the trap door, the boy’s head jerked violently up, and his eyes beheld the most obscene, the most amazing thing he would ever see.

There was a great, high-backed chair illumined by a cluster of lights from far above. In the midst of this strange seat lounged a totally nude woman, a little pudgy, but in all the right places, her long, raven hair spilling off her shoulders in rivulets, her face mostly obscured in untamed black waves. But she wasn’t just a female. She was unlike any girl or Engender he had ever encountered. She was not trim, prim, and buttoned up and down, hooded and distant: she was unclothed, as if clothing were a restricting and alien concept to her, and she was present, unrivaled queen of this circle of light, rightfully occupying the Seat of Power. She was like all females ever, distilled into this one awesome form, the avatar of a Neolithic Venus.

The boy fell to his knees in worship of the source of his Mystery, the Thing, it seemed, that had driven him from the Place of Guidance and drawn him to the Place of Chaos. Here was the Source of Manhood, the Great Mother, and the Eternal Lover. Yes, she was Obscenity Incarnate, for she caused him, without uttering a word or moving so much as a finger, to feel feelings with which he was utterly sure he was not ready to cope.

Then she laughed softly. Shame rose in him. He had no right to gaze upon a woman, especially such a woman as this, in her unclothed state. His hands snapped up to cover his hot face, and he wept. She responded to his utmost disgrace with only more sweet laughter, a gentle waterfall into a basin starved of water. If she had been any other woman, he would have hated her, but somehow he knew that she meant him neither harm nor disrespect. It was not scornful laughter, but a release for tensions that had been building up without relent since his earliest days. Somehow, she knew him, seemingly better than he knew himself. This made her more obscene yet—and more awesome.

When the last of his tears leapt finally from his salty cheeks, he found he could look on her now without shame. And so he gazed upon her irresistible body, her incarnation-at-repose. Except for the black cascade flowing down from her round head, she was hairless, and her skin was nearly white, and smooth like rain when it falls down an alabaster statue. But she was no study in marble, for she breathed, and her breasts separated slightly as her chest rose. That was when he saw that there was writing on her body. In a semi-circle over her right breast, blue ink said: “The Land of Milk and Honey.” A matching inscription over her left breast proclaimed: “The Milk of Human Kindness.” And, just below her navel was written: “Bird of Paradise.”

He was thoroughly befuddled, but The Woman laughed no more. Though he could not clearly see her eyes, the boy knew that she was studying him, and as the moments slowly passed, apprehension grew in him, for he was sure he had come here for a Purpose—and she was going somehow to have her way with him. Why was he here? What would she do? She was naked and more seductive than anything anyone in his world had ever encountered, but he knew he was too young to Engender. Why was she unclothed? What could she possibly want with him?

At last, as a scream was building within his chaos, she spoke. “In da Land uh Milk an Honey,” she said, lifting her right breast and hefting it, “a man git tuh suck all day off da Milk uh Human Kindness.” She jiggled her other breast. “But he don’t git nun uh it,” she stated, rubbing her pubic mound with rough strokes, “widout he love da Bird uh Paradise.” She put up her arms, palm upward, and smiled like a star in the darkness. “Yo daddy know it. Yo mommy know it. You got to know it—an you got tuh tell it. Widout da love, da Milk dry up, an da Bird fly away. Not even da dream uh Paradise gone stay. It a thing uh da heart, baby. But da heart jest a part—an it gonna take all you got tuh make yo art.”

In the midst of his bewilderment, a disembodied voice loudly, harshly, whispered: “Shit! The cops!” The wise-lady made the motion of slashing her throat. The boy heard a sodden thump at the back of his head, and the Night became complete.

When light returned, and with it, a dull, throbbing ache that burst into lightning when he twitched a muscle, the brown boy found himself sitting upright at a school chair-desk. Pre-adolescent voices all around him were chanting: “We are the servants. We are the served. We are the people. The people are us. There is no discord. We all agree. There is no hate. There is no pain. There is no want. We are one Voice. We do not shout. We do not fear. We are one Soul. When we die, were are not gone. We are one Spirit. There is no me. There is no you. There is only Us. We live to serve. We serve to live. We are the servants. We are the served...”

---

The climb was seemingly interminable, and his harsh MetroGuard physical training was all that made the ascent possible for him. And the noise and vibration grew and grew as they went up, eventually becoming a nearly overwhelming rumble and bipartite gale. Only the indefatigable wobble of the woman’s nether regions as she went before him, seemingly without exertion, gave him the inspiration to labor on.

The apex of the effort was a colossal sphere at least half a kilometer in diameter, Up here the upper-pitch, lower-pitch roar was deafening, and the physical thrumming was so powerful it threatened to shake the MetroGuard loose from his precarious perch. Only now did he think—or, rather, find the urge—to look down and see whence he had come. But fear suddenly gripped him, and he did not want to see. He had never climbed to such a height—but it was more than a simple, physical fear that forbade him: he did not dare to know how The City might appear in its totality, if indeed the height were so great—and it seemed it should be. He gripped the rails of the infinite ladder like death and shivered. The hurricane wind pulsed into the sphere and out of the sphere, and his life-force seemed to howl in and out with the gale.

“You must look,” the male and female voices came impossibly to him, “You must see.”

He shook his head on his overstrained neck in hesitant refusal. Part of him wanted to obey the exhortation, but a lifetime of training absolutely forbade such an act. It was not for him, a low-ranking MetroGuard, to know The City entire. Such matters were for the Hierarchs alone. To think of matters too great for his authorization was treason. The MetroGuard attended to matters of The Body, and the Hierarchs attended to matters of the Unity, the Soul, and the Spirit of The City, for they alone had access to The Mind, the oracle that dispensed all useful Knowledge.

“Does the dutiful MetroGuard now fear to see what the awful terrorists would show him?” sneered the perfect man. “I say your training has left you weak and timid, prey to the lies of your manipulative foes. Do not look down, then, and see what we see. Your heart will fail you. You will fall, but your City will not reach up to save you, for you will have failed your duty to bring back knowledge of our nefarious plans.” The perfect man laughed.

That laughter cut through the MetroGuard indoctrination like the stroke of the headsman’s axe. Down fell the head of the MetroGuard, his dying gaze falling beyond the perfect form of the man below him and onto The City. He saw the rows of meticulously planned city blocks delineated in stark, fluorescent dots of light. He saw the obsidian walls of the edifices of the Department of Mental Hygiene, the Place of Guidance, the Boon of Manufacture, the Department of Physical Duty, the Department of Benevolent Oversight, and the Seat of the Mind—all blank and meaningless, surrounded in light, but themselves abysmally dark. He saw the Wall of Night that separated, defended in absolute terms, The City from the inhuman horror that was Outside. It was mighty indeed to his shrinking eyes, at least four or five kilometers across if his perception was any judge of distance at this height. But to his expanding thoughts it now seemed insignificant, for the world must be hundreds or thousands of times greater, he thought, if the Wall of Night must be so high and strong to be impermeable to it.

Part of him longed to let go and waft down into the deadly embrace of The City below, but part of him needed to go higher, to see yet more, and somehow to attain a more potent life. This new and inexperienced part of him sought upward to the comfort of the perfect woman, and he found that she had opened a hatch in the obsidian sphere that moved the breath of The City.

She gazed down upon him and said, “Who would steal the savor out of the Salt of the Earth? Who would sour the Milk of Human Kindness? Who would captivate and regulate the very Breath of the World? Come just a little further, and you will learn what the great Mind in the midst of The City has forbidden even the mighty Hierarchs to know.”

She began again to climb and disappeared into the unguessable spaces beyond the hatch. The Mystery that lay beyond the blackness, within the confines of the great sphere at the end of the long ladder, compelled him to follow. A few moments after he passed the abyssal border of the sphere he heard a click, and the blackness became absolute, and so did the silence. But he could somehow see, dim but clear, the body of the perfect man below him and the perfect woman above—but she was getting smaller, and he hurried to come near again to her protective influence.

After an interminable time she stopped, there was a snick, and she disappeared again. Following, he came to another darkness, but this was pinpricked with tiny, glittering lights, and a broad, nebulous band of varying colors hung over his head, stretched all the way across the hemispherical vista. He heard the snick again from behind him, and suddenly his body became aware of his extreme fatigue, and the potency of the woman’s kiss had no further power to sustain, and he collapsed into the Night.

When he awoke to the glittering lights, he found the man and woman hand in hand, their backs to him, staring into the spangled darkness. For the briefest of moments, the MetroGuard thought of escape back down the ladder, back to his duty. But the newly-awakened parts of his psyche quickly quashed that thought. “What is this?” he said groggily.

“This is something you must have to be human,” responded the beautiful man without turning.

Pivoting a little back toward him, the compelling woman said, “It is something that no human should be denied. It is Outside, as you might say, at least what is immediately outside your City. Even for us, Outside is astonishing to behold—and we have been dawdling about ‘in’ it for eons.”

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Of course you don’t,” responded the beautiful man.

The compelling woman said, “That is why we brought you here. Before you can hear us, you must experience this. You must be overawed by the vast, beautiful terror of it. You must see your own self-importance if you are to comprehend the relationships between you and all other things.”

Driven by her words, his gaze unfixed itself from her beauty and widened to take in the whole hemisphere. He collapsed back, his face upward, limned in the glow of the milky belt of luminescence, his eyes glittering with stars. How long he lay he could not tell, but he lay long enough to forget Hierarchs, and MetroGuards, and whipped and herded people, and The City. In his mind there was only Outside—and the idea that these two perfect human beings were not denizens of The City, but came from Outside, for they claimed to have traveled afar in the Sea of Night. He both believed them and could not believe them, for they seemed so perfect, and wise, and self-assured, but even they would be swallowed up and lost amid the myriad lights.

The lights that you witness are the stars, said a disembodied voice, flames burning for years beyond count to give illumination to the Void. Circling some of those lights are worlds, like The City but far greater. And there is life as you recognize it in many of those worlds. And on a few of those there is human life, or life very like the life of humans. The Consensus inhabits the world toward which The City has been hurled. The City has been built into a small planet-like object called an asteroid. It was launched with fiery explosions, aimed at our planet, so that it will collide with our world and destroy it. The people who remain behind on your original planet wish to rid the Outside of us, for we have influence in many human cultures. We have spread the knowledge of the self-in-all-other-selves far and wide. Many peoples resist the outspreading domination of EarthCorp, and the way must be cleared for prosperity-by-expansion. Therefore we must be eliminated. But it must be widely accepted that the deed was done by the Hand of God. Then all will see that the EarthCorp way of life is superior to all other ways of life, The profits will be staggering.

These ideas resounded in him as his semi-conscious mind struggled to organize them in some way that made sense. But it seemed eons in the doing, and some rational part of him wondered that he did not die of hunger, thirst, and cold, for it seemed to him far colder than death in this place. And he seemed to himself to grow old, as old as flames that burn unquenched forever, and wise, as wise as unguessable expanses of Night unburdened by flesh and mortality. He felt that he had grown as great as the star-field, that he inhabited the star-field, that he was the star-field. He felt that his power was such that, with only the slightest stirring of will, he could be the Hand of God, for he possessed the Mind of God, and it all turned on his whim whether he would allow the fulfillment of the aims of EarthCorp, or whether he would shunt The City off its course and cause the lives therein to seek another purpose.

But his body insisted on its own needs, and he must become only human again or die in the flesh. Old human instincts could not so easily be denied, and that greatly saddened him. The sadness dilated his consciousness back into a more human radius. He lay on the floor and shivered.

When he opened his eyes again, there was the daunting star-field, unperturbed by his momentary mastery of it. There was the beautiful couple, backs to him, hand in hand, apparently not concerned in the least about his current state, overawed by, or perhaps communing with, the great expanses.

Reluctant to disturb them, he must nonetheless speak or die. So, he asked: “Why would EarthCorp, whatever it is, think that it could destroy you with a—an—what did you call it?—asteroid? You could just evacuate your planet, or better yet, destroy the—asteroid. And it must have taken a long time for our City to get from EarthCorp to—wherever we are now, if I have any comprehension of distances, which I’m not sure I do.”

“Well, you have asked some intelligent questions,” said the beautiful man. “My hope for you grows.” Again, he did not turn. “The masters of EarthCorp do not believe we are aware of the oncoming disaster, since their representatives have seen no significant technology on our home planet that they recognize. They believe we will be obliterated without any objections or answering blows. In that belief, they are more of less correct. We have not resorted to violence in any case since the beginning of the Consensus. But The City is beyond their control. They cannot interfere with its workings or make contact with The Mind without the risk of detection. So they must count on the devotion of the Hierarchs to decency, and they must trust that there will be no epidemic of goodness that might cause anyone to go looking beyond the Wall of Night for human knowledge. The Mind that provides knowledge to The City knows only of mechanisms and regulations. Human empathy and inventiveness are thus quashed by human devotion to normality, and by the limits of human intelligence.”

There was silence as the abdicated Hand and Mind of God worked out the meaning of these words. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Why have you burdened me with this knowledge? I’m complicit in atrocity, but I can’t stop it. The City is not mine to command. You have abducted me. Now, I will be suspect for the rest of my life. I will never be a Hierarch.”

“You are thinking in a straight line,” said the beautiful man. “Straight lines exist only in thought. But new possibilities branch out from you in all directions with each new moment. Hierarch is not all-powerful, and it is not all there is for you to be. Each entity is the most important entity in all of existence, for, without each existence, existence would be vastly different than it is: if you do not exist, no possibilities radiate from you and into you. Each entity is also the least important: possibilities swirl around all entities, and existence still exists even until the last entity vanishes. You are no less important or more important than your Hierarchs. Each of you serves a different function. You will serve yours whether or not you do as we ask.”

These people thought and spoke in such strange ways. Nothing they said resonated with his emotions. They did not speak in terms of heroic victories or dutiful restraints, but in terms of what could be and the power of individuals who are not truly individual acting within a field of individuals (also not completely individual), all taking actions. They spoke of interactions and functions, and trust and consensus, points of view and lines of demarcation, submission, subversion, and willingness. Now he understood at least what they had meant about speaking the simplest tongue available. When they spoke as they thought, there was a lag time as he tried to translate, and then he was not sure he had it right. And then it was so far away from what he felt that he would not believe it had they not drugged him, carried him away from his familiar surroundings, talked to him, taken away from him the armor that is clothing, brought him up the infinite ladder, and installed him among the stars.

“What function would you like me to serve?” he asked.

“It is not a matter of liking,” responded the compelling woman, “but is a matter of what we believe is the best chance of success from our point of view.”

“Success meaning that your home planet doesn’t get destroyed.”

“That,” agreed the woman, “and that The City is not destroyed, EarthCorp is not destroyed, and the many whom we have influenced are not harmed.”

“So, what gives us the best chance to avoid the intended calamity?”

“Well,” she answered, “you understand that we could have gotten to your controls and turned your City aside?”

“Yes, but that isn’t your way, I guess. You’d let us destroy your world in order not to rob us of our choices.”

“That is true,” she said. “It is equally true that, if The City turned aside now, EarthCorp would devise another plan for our destruction and launch it as soon as may be. But our analysis shows that EarthCorp is an extremely unbalanced system, and if it does not significantly expand its resources within fifty to sixty years, it will almost certainly implode within another ten to twenty years beyond that. The managers of EarthCorp have analysts who know this, but will not listen to them because they do not wish to believe it—so it isn’t true.”

“So, I ask again. What do you think I should do?”

“MetroGuard thinking,” the beautiful man sneered. “You’d better get to the point.”

“Our estimates show that there are a little less than three more generations before The City impacts our world, about sixty years by your reckoning. If late in the second generation or early in the third The City were to deviate by less than a degree from its trajectory, we would avoid the collision, and EarthCorp would have little ability to respond.”

“And what happens to The City?”

“Once EarthCorp has been defanged, so to speak, by its own inertia, our people can openly make contact with yours, and then we shall see what we shall see. Your efforts will have paved the way, and contact should be reasonably amicable.”

“My efforts?”

“Now we come to it at last, as you might think,” said the compelling woman, smiling her most compelling smile. “We have located two children, a girl and a boy. My companion contacted the girl and set off a radius of events by giving her a box of forbidden chocolate. I contacted the boy and encouraged him to continue walking the path he had already chosen.” Inexplicably, images and usual locations, of the girl and the boy flashed into his mind, formulated as MetroGuard dossiers. “Your task, if you accept it, is to find them, to guard them, and to guide them. At some point, their lives will intersect, with a little help from you, and they will themselves plant a tree of events that will work as desired. Our analysis rates the chance of success at approximately ninety-nine point one-six percent—and all of it accomplished with love.”

She came over and sat down beside him. Her companion moved to stand next to her, his visage no longer disdainful, but softer now and filled with secret humor. “If you’re willing,” she said, her silky voice now gone husky,” we would like to love you before we part ways. It’s our traditional way to conclude all our important interactions.”

Stunned and afraid, thinking that what he was about to do was high on the extensive list of forbidden activities—but also unable to resist his newly-awakened desire for experiences—he silently nodded his assent.

ADAPTATION

Falling on the good and the wicked,

It swells the tender shoots of spring;

Nourishing,

All things with life under sun,

Feeding the hungry like tomes of lore;

Embracing,

Thirsty skies like great, vaporous birds,

Scudding from horizon to horizon;

Searching,

The barren lands, granting surcease

Where surcease is desired, understood;

Blessing,

All those who crave for draughts

Of refreshment, seeking to content;

Unifying,

Becoming one with all, building up

Seas and tearing down mountains;

Becoming,

Changing form with no ceasing;

Mist, rain, ice, snow, and frost;

Presenting,

Itself with myriad guises and hues,

Wearing the masks of the occasion;

Adapting,

Sometimes silent and sweet as wine,

Sometimes, shouting above the roar of wind;

Flowing,

In paths assigned by fate and earth,

Tributary to the glory of existence;

Secret,

As love unrequited, accepting its lot,

But revealed to the right eye and heart;

Calm,

In morning, awaiting sun’s caress,

Lying thick at feet like good dogs;

Angry,

In afternoon, reflecting the heat,

Spurning the heartless offer of earth;

Rejoicing,

That others may share its secrets,

Wisely becoming fluid in human form;

BEING.

T’ELMACH AND JARE OMSTED

---

“Every human has wishes. It is useful to wish and hope, therefore—but not to expect.”—Amalya Mbokuna

---

What T’elmach said to Minorka was perhaps not completely original. After all, philosophers have ruminated on an equitable distribution of powers and resources among the members of groups since time immemorial, though Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau formalized the terminology in the 17^th and 18^th centuries of the Second Age. What she had to say, however, was surprising to us, considering her purported background. With beliefs such as these, even taking into account her rational demeanor, we had to wonder why she had not leapt out the airlock at the first convenient black hole and rid both herself and the universe of her. The fact that she did not seem unduly haunted was curious to us, and we wondered whether that attitude sprang from an implacable sociopathy, or from some wellspring of wisdom which we had yet to fully plumb. The youngest ranking member of the Philosophical Society of Edelos was Jare Omsted of the Terran Assembly, a mere 48 Standard Years of age. He was, for a reason we would discover later, quite eager to plumb those depths, so we granted him the second dialogue.

---

Jare Omsted: You know, I’m usually pretty worn out after a session, but tonight I feel energized. You are quite something.

T’elmach: Everyone is quite something—but I’ll take it as a compliment. You’ve certainly maintained the vigor of youth. You were intense.

Jare Omsted: As an uncle of mine used to say: “I aim to please.”

T’elmach: Maybe you should go back to the shooting range and take some more practice.

Jare Omsted: Ooh! Ouch!

So those pleasured noises your were making were less than fully honest?

T’elmach: Youngling, I am an old woman—by your standards, ancient. When you’re this old and someone takes an interest in your far-out-of-date goods, it’s always pleasurable, whether you allow them to take a sample or not. But truly, I have had it on with many very eager and talented lovers in my time. Maybe my perceptions are skewed by age and general disinterest, but I’ve been launched to heights so high that a woman of less will would still have been drifting the cosmos, a wrecked and frozen testament to the limits of physical and spiritual existence. You did not ravage me—but I didn’t yawn, either. Let’s leave it at that.

Jare Omsted: I doubt you’ll be insulted when I say you are truly a cold-hearted bitch. It’s a statement of fact, I think, and no insult meant, of course. You have taught me something, although I’m not sure what it is yet.

T’elmach: Well then, I’ve done a service.

I think that people mistake rationality and logic for coldness—and a strong opinion in a female is, in most cultures, taken as a sign of unnatural ambitions. If a male had said to you anything like what I said, would you not have taken it as a sign of his forthrightness?

Jare Omsted: I can’t say: I’m still smarting.

T’elmach: Ohhh, I’m sorry. I really am. My last passage was seven months on a robot freighter. The freighter was full of unassembled robots, and it was crewed by utility ‘bots. Perhaps you’ll forgive an old woman for being a bit out of practice in the social graces.

Jare Omsted: Heh heh. Of course.

Anyway, I guess I’m supposed to be here for an intercourse of a different sort. But I just had to know this thing about you.

T’elmach: What thing is that?

Jare Omsted: Whether you could love.

T’elmach: I don’t call what we just did love, youngling. We just did some nice mechanical gratification. That was all the investment I had in it.

Jare Omsted: Damn! You say you’re not cold, but damn.

T’elmach: Actually, I didn’t say I wasn’t cold, if you recall. I said that reasonableness and logic are often mistaken for coldness. But truly I can be quite tender to a lover, and quite attached. To be crude, however, you were a fucker, and I was never under any illusions that you were anything else. Are you telling me that you’d like to have an ongoing relationship and emotional attachments?

Jare Omsted: I guess not.

I’ve had a few lovers, and a few casual dalliances. Usually, I’m considered, or so I’m told, to be quite spectacular, a real artist—and gymnast. It’s a shock to be told anything different. But I’m getting over it. I think I’ll go have a hot stimwater in the restaurant to prepare for our interview proper. Want anything?

T’elmach: No, I’ll have a sip and a bite here in the suite. You need to be on your own for a bit to sort out your feelings, I think.

---

T’elmach: You’re back quicker than I expected.

Jare Omsted: Yes, I decided that you can’t please all the people all the time.

T’elmach: Sometimes you can’t please any of them at any time.

Jare Omsted: Damn! Hah hah! Lay off!

T’elmach: Hmmp. I didn’t mean it that way—only as a general observation.

Jare Omsted: Hah hah! I like you.

T’elmach: That is dangerous.

Jare Omsted: Alright, then. I feel we’ll get along nicely. How’s that?

T’elmach: Still teetering on the edge of danger, but it’ll have to do.

T’elmach: You want to know if I—especially, I suppose, if I—have the ability to feel and give love?

Jare Omsted: Have you ever felt it? Do you really know what it is—as opposed to merely having heard others talk about it?

T’elmach: Who can say? Who knows what it really is? Who knows how many brands of it there are? Who can feel what someone else feels when they say they have love?

Jare Omsted: You are far too philosophical about this subject.

T’elmach: Heh heh. You’re a philosopher.

Jare Omsted: Yes, but to think about love properly, you have to feel it. And even then it’s impossible to really put what you feel into words. You can only say something about it—something detached and clinical, or something flowery and stupid. It’s too personal and can’t be described adequately. You can only nibble around the edges of it, but you can never get to the inside of it.

T’elmach: Why don’t you nibble some more around my frayed, old edges—trim me up a bit? Let’s see if you can invoke something in me. Then we can see if we have had enough of a shared experience that we can talk more intimately about it.

Jare Omsted: Alright. One more time for science!

---

Jare Omsted: You did it again. The man is supposed to be drained, but I feel more lively than I did before I started.

T’elmach: That’s a myth, you know. Male and female have traditionally had an unequal relationship in almost every sapient culture. One is traditionally dominant, and the other submissive. The submissive relies on the dominant to fill her, or him, up, to dig into his, or her, energy supply and pump it in. When the two partners are equal, the sex causes an exchange of energies, more or less equivalent. The male gets the feminine energy and softens a little, becomes less concerned with the world and pays more attention to the homely things, and the female gets the masculine energy and becomes more assertive, more worldly-ambitious. Both get something better than one feeling exhausted and the other feeling energized: they get satisfaction. That is, each feels understood, accepted—all the way, so to speak. Each feels like she, or he, has an unflappable ally in the face of—well, everything a living being must face.

By the way, you got closer this time. I participated a little, instead of just letting you have a go at me. I could be wrong, but I think it’s less that you feel envigorated, and more that you have relaxed a little, let off some of your tensions, especially as regards me. Hah hah. Maybe you should keep your guard up. I might be angling in for the kill, boy. Haha. Hahahahaha.

Or, maybe you could let it ride, and not worry about what my intentions are. You’re an intelligent being, aren’t you? Even if I slip something by you, you’re still young—at least compared to me. You can keep up with me, can’t you?

Jare Omsted: I’m not ready to make any declarations about that, T’elmach. You’re wily, and you’ve got a lot of experience on me.

T’elmach: Heh heh. I said you were intelligent. Anyway, while we’re gearing up for round three, let’s talk as best we can about the subject of your interest.

Jare Omsted: Ohhh-kaaaayyyy.

T’elmach: I guess in seeing whether or not I can be moved to love, you want to know what I think and feel about love.

Jare Omsted: Maybe. Or maybe I just like having it on with old ladies. I might be doing it to get at your hidden treasure—and I’m making out like the hidden treasure is between your legs just to get you to drop your defenses.

T’elmach: Gigolo, eh? Prince Consort to Princess Bitch, Goddess of the Universe? Hah hah hah hah. You’re a crafty one. But you’ve outsmarted yourself, boy. The only treasure I’ve got left is between my ears.

Jare Omsted: You do yourself too little credit. You’re not exactly a dried out old prune. You’ve kept yourself up pretty nicely.

T’elmach: Work will do that for you. And anyway, one has to be prepared for all eventualities.

Jare Omsted: Alright. How about you let me ring the bell for round three?

T’elmach: We’ll talk until you’re ready.

T’elmach: According to your mythologist-philosopher Joseph Campbell, there are essentially three kinds of love. There’s agape, the love of a person for all sapientkind. There’s eros, sexual love. That’s a good one. And there’s amore, the love of mated pairs for one another. The first two classes, agape and eros, are impersonal sorts of love. They don’t require the lover to know anyone with whom she’s interacting. She can just show the love because she wants to. But the third is intensely personal. It’s a selective love of a person for the one to whom she’s mated in the soul, so to speak, as opposed to the one to whom she’s sexually joined to by contract—a marriage partner by arrangement rather than by spiritual attraction.

That’s not a bad set, but it’s simplistic, as I’m sure he knew well enough. The Oinosian philosopher Kltasnasgolffritt would add szozana, interpersonal love. This is a, usually, non-sexual form of love that a person has for others that she has actually interacted with. It requires experience of another person, knowing that he possesses at least some redeeming quality that makes him likeable, or at least tolerable.

I’m not versed in philosophy by any means other than personal experience. I’ve done a lot of things, and while doing my penance for many of those things, I’ve had a lot of time for thinking, especially in between employments. So, I will deign to add a few more categories, I think. If you’ve heard these before, I guess you’ll have to bear with me, since you came here to learn what I’m about.

First, I’d add goodwill. This is the weakest form of love. It isn’t strictly classifiable as true love, I suppose, but is often a rationalized proto-love—at least for many people. Some would lump it in with agape, but it’s far weaker, and so is different in intensity, if not in kind. Goodwill does nothing more than wish a person well. It’s a form that simply sets a person’s feelings about another person or group apart from indifference, or hate. Having goodwill requires no more of you than that you would rather another person do well than not. Unlike true agape, it doesn’t require you to rush around the universe, moving from catastrophe to catastrophe, rendering aid. It doesn’t require you to give another person the coat off your back, but only to wish that person a coat if he doesn’t have one. It doesn’t even have to be genuine love, but it can be done for purely logical purposes. That is, a person can decide it’s better for certain people to do well because it increases her own chances of doing well, so she institutes a policy of keeping herself open to having positive dealings with that person or group. Most governments, except those of the most xenophobic or aggressive cultures, maintain policies of goodwill.

Second, I’d put in familial love. Of course, this is love for family. Much of this type of love can be attributed, especially in certain hyper-clannish species like the Voyna-Gurgei, to hormonal and pheromonal similarities. The Voyna-Gurgei can’t behave with any degree of hostility to close kin, but they can be horrendously violent and vindictive with those whose kinship they can’t detect.

But for most species’ familiarity has just as much to do with familial love. That is, if you live with someone long enough, you can’t help but build a number of emotional attachments to them. And if an authority figure with whom you dwell reinforces the need to feel the familial bond, and displays such devotion herself, as a matter of social pressure, these attachments become firmly imprinted in the brain.

I would include friendship as a sub-type of familial love. Long association with another person, or any kind of creature, almost always constructs attachments that increase in strength with relationship length and intensity. For almost all species, this sort of love is completely constructed from experience, though there are species who can recognize the hormones and pheromones of associates. For these species the friendship bond can easily become a true familial bond.

Third, I think obsession is a species of love. Obviously, it’s a very selfish kind. It’s a psychopathic kind of love—all about what I want, and you can’t be allowed to disconnect from me, and if I can’t have you, nobody can... But it is about connectedness, and, as such, it is a love.

Fourth, I’d put in hate. Hate is...

Jare Omsted: Hate? I’ve never understood...

T’elmach: Yes, hate. You’ve heard that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference.

Jare Omsted: I’ve never understood it. I’ve never hated anyone.

T’elmach: Oh, you’ve missed an exquisite experience. If you’re not conflicted by societal restrictions, a worthy hate can be as joyous as the birth of a child or the sun peaking through clouds after months of glower and darkness. I’m sure you’ve heard that people can be filled with joy, and maybe you have felt the feeling yourself.

Jare Omsted: I just felt it the last two times we made love.

T’elmach: I have not yet arrived.

But it’s interesting the way you put it: “making” love. Terrans often say that. In terms of eros, you can manufacture it. For a sapient, with our ability to abstract, and the animal willingness and readiness of our bodies, we can feel the desire to feel desire, so to speak. So, we conjure up in our minds some situation that provides us with motivation, if we find ourselves lacking, and then, boing!, we’ve got enough sexual urge to get the job done. That’s how people who aren’t attracted to one another manage it. That’s how rapists do it. Somehow, rapists have sexual desire confounded with the urge to hunt and the urge to control, or it isn’t about sex at all, but rather they know that the surest way to humiliate and gain control over someone is by removing their capacity to determine their own sexual fate.

And this brings us back to hate, I think, since rape is a very hateful act—at least when the rapist is aware of what he’s doing, in control of his sexual urges and not driven purely by a primitive mating-lust.

So, hate...

Jare Omsted: You know, this all seems a little stilted. At least that’s how it’s going to come off in the dialogue as people read it. It’s like you have rehearsed it, had it memorized.

T’elmach: Damn, boy! Will you quit interrupting?

Jare Omsted: Um, sorry.

T’elmach: Didn’t I tell you that I recently spent six years as a professor of linguistics at the College of the Three Moons on Tadlat? The Bildlu who founded that college are monks devoted to logic, so all the students are extremely attentive to detail and full of questions. I learned how to build lectures on the fly. The more authoritative you seem, and the more objections you anticipate, the less questions you get asked. It’s perverse, I suppose, but I like to weed out the intelligent questions by anticipating them in my lectures. For the most part, that leaves only the more stupid questions, which I can ridicule at my leisure. Of course, every now and again I get zinged with a really good one that I apparently had no ability to prepare for.

Jare Omsted: Did I just zing you?

T’elmach: No. But you did interrupt. We’ll have to discuss this after class.

But, hate included in the categories of love, yes. To put it simply, to hate means to care. And love is nothing if it’s not caring. You have a special bond with the people you hate. There is some quality they evidence, knowingly or not, that forces you to confront them, or at least to think, often obsessively, about having a confrontation. The people you hate, even if the hate seems to come in flashes, perhaps each time you see them or are otherwise reminded of them and what they represent, writes itself on you. And like a space ship’s data recording, what is written cannot be unwritten or overwritten. You can put layers of stuff on top of it to interfere with it ever showing itself, but it’s still there. It’s very much like all the fears you’ve ever accumulated. You can face them and overcome them, but they never truly leave you. They always flash out for a moment when you are confronted with the triggering stimulus.

Hate can be specific to a person or a group, or it can be a general hatred for a condition of existence, but it forces your attention when you are even tangentially exposed to the trigger. It’s so pervasive that it only makes sense as a perverse form of love. It is your love for your own self, your devotion to your own worldview, your attachments to certain creatures and things that, when your love is threatened, causes an abiding obsession with the threat. Hate is fear. Fear springs from the desire for self-preservation. Because we are creatures who can love, who can possess other psyches and be possessed by other psyches, who can possess objects and be possessed by those objects, we can develop hates when our possession is challenged or overthrown. Because we are creatures who can think in the abstract, we can have fears concerning our worldview, so we can have hates directed at those who challenge our worldview. If our devotion to ourselves, so strong that it can spawn fears and hates is not love, I don’t know what is.

Jare Omsted: You just said something very interesting to me. I think it was “...possess other psyches and be possessed...” It’s a curious way to describe our relationship to other people. And you say the same thing can happen with objects. Do you think of our interaction as an attempt at possession, you of me, and maybe me of you?

T’elmach: Do you think we are doing something else?

Jare Omsted: We’re talking. Well, you’re doing most of the talking.

T’elmach: I think I’m supposed to be doing most of the talking. But that’s beside the point.

When we interact, we want something: mere survival, easing of pain, companionship, acceptance, tolerance, acknowledgement—whatever. When I exist in an environment, it becomes mine: my bedroom, my house, my neighborhood, my city, my planet, my solar system, my galaxy, my universe. But I also become part of it; without it, I am, at least temporarily, until I readjust, all at sea. When I have a friend, well, we have each other. When I visit a commercial establishment, I go to exchange resources: my money for your datachips, my money for your repair services, my sexual services for your credits, etcetera. When I smile at you or exchange pleasantries with you, it’s my acknowledgement in return for your acknowledgement; we’re exchanging little parts of ourselves for little parts of others. Even the mere act of breathing is exchange. Exchange is about possession. Part of me goes into you, and part of you goes into me. We influence each other. We possess each other. All definitions of possession are, weakly or strongly, about influence, about the connection of one person or thing or group to another person or thing or group. But love, the subject of our interlocution, is the most possessive of all.

Jare Omsted: You know, that’s been said before.

T’elmach: Yes. And maybe you’re thinking it’s been said by wiser and more authoritative mouths than mine.

Jare Omsted: I’m wondering how much you ought to trust your feelings and inferences on matters of love. Maybe at risk to my own person, I’ve just got to note that you have admitted to being a sociopath and sometimes psychopath. Those mental conditions tend to give a pretty skewed view of love and morality.

T’elmach: Unless you’re totally devoid, feelings of hate, spite, arrogance, and entitlement can be, um, encouraged. Even an implacably kind person can be turned temporarily into a psychopath, and if the pressure is constant, into a sociopath. Even when the pressures are lifted, what a person has done in those states remains written ever after on the soul.

Well, why not love? Why can’t love be encouraged? If feelings of love are weak, they can be invoked and amplified with appeals to self-interest. They can also be cajoled or evoked if I allow someone to stroke them. Love-like feelings are connections, even the most seemingly selfish, and can strengthen the latent love-ability in someone. Showing love can activate the love in the loveless—unless, as I say, they are totally devoid of the ability.

There are varying degrees of sociopathy and psychopathy, which is defined by the inability to make positive love connections. But a sociopath/psychopath—I’ll put them together as one for this purpose—can make negative love connections, that is, hate connections. And a sociopath/psychopath can, at least from time to time—a sociopath more than a psychopath—recognize when at least feigning a positive connection is in her self-interest. Even in the most damaged and criminal sociopath/psychopath, this ability can open the door to more positive connections. Maybe some are so scarred by their life experiences—having not been guided to positivity, or actually having been pushed away from positivity—that they can’t walk through the door, but I believe these metaphorical doors are there.

Jare Omsted: That’s my cue, I think. I’m ready to give it another go.

---

T’elmach: I wish you hadn’t done that, Jare. I think you miscued. I feel further from you, even though I’m lying next to you, than I did when we were only talking. The third time was not a charm.

Jare Omsted: Um, I’m sorry?

T’elmach: It may not be any fault of yours, Jare. I like you. That may be the problem. You see, I can’t afford to make love connections. I like it that someone still finds me attractive enough, in some way, that he or she wants to plow my field, so to speak.

But I live a monkish existence. Yes, I’m a wandering monk of sorts. I’m very capable of hate, even after all this time out of the life of a Goddess-Princess. I’m capable at least of negative love. So, I have to live a life of detachment.

There’s also the problem of people wanting to kill me as retribution. I must remain elusive. It’s a big galaxy, but I can’t afford to remain anywhere more than a few Standard Years. So, I can’t afford strong connections; I must be quickly detachable. The occasional plowed field is good, so long as it’s only for fun. But when I find myself starting to engage—NO!

So, it almost certainly is me and not you.

Jare Omsted: Um, okay. I think you’re apologizing, so apology accepted.

And you may be the best actor ever, so I can’t totally dismiss that possibility, but I think you’ve just answered one of my questions more fully than you have with any of your long answers.

T’elmach: Hm. Well, since it’s an emotional thing, I’ll leave it between you and yourself. Heh heh. I’ve given you something, and you’ve made it yours.

But, for the record, I am thoroughly convinced, possibly more on an emotional level than on a logical plane, that all of these seven kinds of love are intimately, inextricably bound up with morality and the impulse to altruism. Without some emotional acceptance of the need to live in groups, social creatures never could have become social. So, this impulse is the root of love, I think. Once creatures have felt driven to survive together and have begun to do so, the drive to socialize is strengthened. This is love. A group of psychopaths got together, their love bonds awoke, and over the epochs of evolution, they became more socially intelligent together—and they became what we call sapient.

I’ve never heard of a non-social species that ever became sapient. There are a lot of intelligent solitary species—of course, even these have to interact when it comes time to mate. But I’ve never heard of such a species that achieved sapience. Sapience is wisdom, not logic—at least as most species still define logic, but that’s another subject. Wisdom is the intuitive ability to predict what’s going to happen when people take a certain course of action. The non-sapient can predict the outcome of physical actions, but not emotional ones—at least not to a very high degree of accuracy. Moreover, they don’t really care about emotional stuff, except inasmuch as the stuff other creatures do affects them. So, they don’t have the connectedness to think about anything but themselves. They can only interact well enough to achieve mating because they’re genetically programmed to do so.

Jare Omsted: I think there’s a slight flaw in that theory. Can’t solitary species feel hate? After all, you described social creatures as psychopaths who came to live together. Psychopaths can feel hate.

T’elmach: To be a psychopath, you have to feel something. Even if all you ever feel is frustration and hate, you feel something. You’ve given me a good challenge. To be a psychopath, does a person have to have any kind of social impulse?

Hmm. Well, to be a psychopath, a person has to at least live in a social setting. A truly solitary creature can’t truly be seen as antisocial, since it has no society whose interests it can act against. But it may be a matter of aberrant non-sociality. That is, a psychopath is maybe a solitary entity born into a society. That is, she’s a genetic anomaly. She has the characteristics of a genetically solitary creature, but she is forced to exist within a social structure.

No, I’d have to reject that postulation, though I do so with insufficient proof. Let’s look at an extreme case, a hermit. A hermit might not necessarily be considered a psychopath. She might be asocial. Most people can’t seem to understand that asociality is a different thing from antisociality. An asocial person doesn’t want to interact with society. An antisocial person, a psychopath or a criminal sociopath, interacts, negatively, does things that negatively impact the people with whom she interacts. But an asocial person abstains, as much as she can, from interaction. Psychopaths can’t be asocial as well as antisocial.

Jare Omsted: Why is that?

T’elmach: To be antisocial, you have to interact with an element of a social structure. Even if it’s only to scrawl offensive graffiti, you have to interact with something constructed by a society. If you were truly asocial, you wouldn’t bother. You would simply stay away as much as opportunity afforded. You would learn, as much as you are able, the skills and attitudes of self-sufficiency, and then you would put your abilities to use.

But everything this asocial person who derives from a social species has done up to this point has been achieved with the help of a social structure. Creatures derived from social species’ are not born with the ability to survive on their own. Even the most fearsome Nuphar warrior can’t survive on its own at birth. A creature of an asocial species can.

Jare Omsted: So, you’re saying that psychopaths have, by nature, to be possessed of negative love, or hate? And you’re saying that even asocial hermits have to be able to love on some level?

T’elmach: That’s treacherous territory. One could easily lose objectivity. I don’t know what a true hermit feels and thinks. There are many people who think of themselves as asocial, but they never trouble themselves to actually become hermits. Why does a hermit become a hermit?

Jare Omsted: To get away from his society, from all society.

T’elmach: But, why?

Jare Omsted: He finds society and its trappings bothersome, I assume. He’s irritated by the necessity of interaction. Even if he’s the most stick-at-home person, he must be forced to interact with some sort of human construct, even if it’ only his household computers. He’s constantly reminded of other people, and is frustrated, so he goes where he doesn’t have to be reminded.

T’elmach: Does this person think about others when he is alone in his hermit paradise? Does he recall that there are other beings of his species, somewhere, living together?

Jare Omsted: From the accounts I’ve read, there are a few who claim to have completely forgotten. But of course, since they’ve gone on record, they couldn’t have been allowed to keep on forgetting. Either they recorded their thoughts on their own—and there would be no reason for that if they didn’t suppose that someone might bear witness to the recording—or they interacted with someone who recorded their thoughts. But who knows about the thoughts of hermits who went away and never left any journal?

T’elmach: I certainly don’t. But these people were brought up among social creatures, and I don’t believe that they completely forgot. Beyond that, I can’t say what their emotional state might be.

But your question was whether solitary species can feel hate—which you linked to psychopathy. I think I’ve successfully refuted the idea that psychopaths are truly solitary.

It’s hard to say what a creature feels. And there are so few truly solitary species. Even most trees are at least slightly communal. Even most animals that are commonly viewed as solitary are not completely solitary: most care for their young. But as I’ve said there are no known sapient species that are also naturally solitary. The few truly solitary species are what we class as low-order intelligences. These creatures simply have no inherent interest in other species. Unless threatened, they are completely indifferent. If a threat seems like one they can defeat, they may try to destroy it. If not, they prefer to flee a threat or to hide from it in whatever way they’re able to hide. But such creatures have never been known to seek vengeance for something done to them. They don’t seem to have any emotions at all, except maybe fear of death.

Jare Omsted: Um, okay. I’ll have to give that more consideration. But it is a working hypothesis.

T’elmach: As you consider, take care that your ego doesn’t get in the way. You seem much more overtly emotional than Minorka—though she did seem to have some touchy spots. I think you have a pet hypothesis or two on which I’m intruding.

Jare Omsted: If you say so. Anyway, we’re here to find out your thoughts...

T’elmach: Really, we’re here to find out the Deep Orb’s thoughts.

Jare Omsted: Okayyyyyy. Do go on.

T’elmach: Heh heh. So, I’m leading up to the dependence of morality and altruism on sociality, which is dependent on the ability to love. What need is there for morality or altruism if there is no sense of connection? And what is any kind of love, unless it is connection?

I have demonstrated logically that morality is a culture’s sense of what’s fair. Even the strangest taboos were thought to promote survival and satisfaction. Even the most horrible traditional punishments are justice, because retribution is seen to be the exaction of an equity of payment for transgressions. Even at my worst, I was interacting with the morality of my culture, the morality of Empire. I may now have a broader sense of morality, but that was then my morality. My prior morality was all about a central authority imposing its rules upon the general population.

Moralist sapients may be willing to give to others who seem to be less fortunate than themselves, but this isn’t out of a sense of true altruism. They donate out of their own claimed resources, not simply because another entity seems to be in need, but because they feel a personal connection to an entity that seems to be in need. What I mean is that the entity to which they feel the connection must either be family or someone who seems to be worthy of the assistance they might receive. Moralist-thinkers can show amazing loves and hates, devotions to whatever causes they hold dear. But they are not open to other ways of viewing morality.

Altruism is perhaps the flip-side of morality. It is morality, despite what some may claim, but it is a far more open connection, much less specific. Assessment of worthiness is non-specific. Creatures are worthy because they exist. Therefore, every creature is worthy of com-passion, that is, suffering together. It’s perhaps harder for a true altruist to love specific people with the same depth of devotion as a moralist. Altruists have divided loyalties, since they’re loyal to everyone. Everything that exists is a center, so existence is filled with infinite, overlapping centers.

But your personal curiosity, Jare, was whether I could love. I believe I can. But I can’t afford to love specific people. I am now more of an altruist than a moralist. I still fall in between. I’m not totally unsympathetic to the moralist point of view, and bearing witness to a good bit of retribution or a piece of hot, sentimental judgement sends a little heat into the cockles of my black old heart. But it’s a BIG universe. I can sense the bigness. There’s more to the universe than I can conceive. I simply can’t know everything. And the universe has let me live when it seems to me it shouldn’t have. How can I reasonably stand in judgement?

Jare Omsted: I think the jury’s still out on you and your abilities, T’elmach. I feel you have some kind of love-ability, but I’m not sure what exactly it is. I could love you in a very specific way, I think, but for now I love you in that altruistic way. I’m probably more of a moralist than a philosopher should be. And I should revile you for your past, for which I don’t think you can ever pay dearly enough. But there’s something about you, and I wouldn’t like to see anyone get their proper retribution on you. I’ve had sex with you, but that isn’t it. What I mean is, there’s something about you that’s found its worthiness—or is destined to find its worthiness. I’m glad I got to interact with you.

T’elmach: I’ve been saving this one up, Jare, among others that I’ve hat plenty of time to compose and file away. I’m going to give it to you, because I think you can receive it. And I don’t mind if your compatriots hear it too:

There is a moral center around which we can gather, as our ancestors gathered round their campfires to tell their stories. There is a center that won’t require us to become goose-stepping functionaries spreading the gospel of oneness-by-command. There is a center that doesn’t leave us adrift as indifferent self-centers, a center that inspires us to rhythm and meaning, singing and dancing to our own tune as the music moves within us and around us, merging, aware and unaware, into a harmony that resounds throughout and transcends the Halls of Time and Space.

The Seven Loves—Goodwill, Agape, Family, Amor, Eros, Obsession, and Hate—make our harmony with the music of the cosmos, Jare. It’s by this Grace that we become more than just material things. It’s this Grace that endows us with Purpose and Meaning.

Jare Omsted: Amen, sister! Preach it!

T’elmach: There is one ability I can definitely say I still lack, Jare.

Jare Omsted: What’s that, T’elmach?

T’elmach: The ability to know whether you’re being facetious.

Jare Omsted: Hahahahaha. Dealer’s choice, baby!

SYMMETRY

Wisdom is the golden flower

Which opens pure, soft petals;

Trembling,

At the caress of cool breezes,

And the touch of warm rain;

Drinking,

Taking in what is good to be,

Giving symmetric beauty in return;

Closing,

In harsh, dry, greedy winds

Which tear away at the soul;

Withstanding,

All things which have no profit,

Balancing against their measure of joy;

Withholding,

Grace and sublimation and sight,

Storing up against bitter days;

Preserving;

Its precious hoard for kinder hands

And eyes which have loved other flowers;

Revealing.

BILLY ODETTES

---

“My desire now is that the good things of my imagination should verily be. I desire to transcend my flesh, and not as an act of imagination only. I wish to be fully aware of the universe and a human world around me and within me, to know it as the profound reality. But, my philosophy cannot imagine, nor does it seem likely ever to imagine, by what process this could be achieved. The many religions claim that they have the means by which humans can make such transformations. But all of their methods come with what are, to be generous, significant drawbacks.”—Amalya Mbokuna

---

Josh Billings was a stinkin’ drunk, sometimes a fallin’-down drunk, sometimes a sittin’-down drunk, sometimes a wobbly standin’-up drunk, sometimes a broom-pushin’, wishin’-he-were-drunk drunk. It were his pr’fession, ya see: town drunk. It were a damn near exclusive pr’fession in the dust-town a Whalen on Red Crick Trail. Two hunnerd an’ eighteen livin’ souls an’ three town drunks. Not much competition, so they might not a reached the height a thur craft, as ya might say, but they done thur job alright—an’ Josh Billings were the most successful a the lot.

This night were a good ‘un fer Josh. A cavalry troop were in town, eager to wash out the dust an’ the blood a them Skins they’d bin a-fightin’ three months on end. Beer an’ whiskey was a-pourin’ down like raindrops from Heav’n, an’ some a it were fallin’ down on Josh. An’ he were ready fer it. He know’d they was a-comin’, an’ he took half a bath down in the crick so’s he could knock off half his stink an’ come off like maybe he done a thing or two in his useless life, like maybe he earned a few worthy stories to change in fer a few well-d’served, mem’ry-drownin’ drinks.

An’ in his capacity as a pr’fessional town drunk, he know’d quite a few good tales what he picked up durin’ his ‘prenticeship an’ in the time since. Forty-eight years on this earth, thirty-three a ‘em as a right proper drunk. Yeah, Army dollars flowed like a river on nights like this ‘un, but they was few and far b’tween, so Josh hauled out his best stuff. He’d already told the tale a Hog-waller Jack, an’ Two-timin’ Quimby, an’ Perfidious Pete Packer, an’ it were gettin’ late, but he’d just got to have one or two more drinks b’fore Sarge put out the camp call, so he pulled out his ace-in-the-hole: the tale a Billy Odettes.

---

“Billy weren’t no more’n eighteen years old, an’ his brother Mike were a year more—all grow’d up by the standards a New Bend on Blue River. They serves ‘em up hot’n’fresh down thur, don’t ya know, ‘cause they gotta get ‘em workin’ hard an’ early to scratch a hard livin’ outta the dust in them parts. Three months a mud an’ the rest cracked dirt an’ grit. They ain’t even ‘portant ‘nough to get a cattle drive ur a railroad train. All they got is the stage passin’ through fer water, an’ fer the hotel during the flood time.

“Anyhow, they had Billy and Mike. Now, most ever’body loved Billy and Mike. They was rowdy but good-hearted young fellers, bust up the saloon one night an’ help old ladies to church the next mornin’.

“One day in March, a Sunday jus’ a few days b’fore time fer the river to git up, Billy an’ Mike was a-walkin’ the town, a-lookin’ at the ladies. They was a-feelin’ the itch, ya know, an’ they was jus’ the right age to git serious ‘bout sparkin’ an’ courtin’. But that weren’t gonna happen fer poor Mike. Jus’ thur bad luck that Jake Bascomb picked that vury day to rob the telegraph.

“Ya see, down in New Bend, they ain’t got a bank, so the Saturday night haul from the Stagecoach Inn—and from the rare few other things in New Bend what make a profit—got put in the safe at the telegraph office.

“Well, Mike an’ Billy jus’ happened to be nigh the telegraph when Bascomb come a-backin’ out with saddlebags full a dollars an’ his pistol draw’d an’ aimed back inside at the telegraph man. Mike, he were the brave, stupid type, an’ he fancied hisself pretty quick with a pistol, an’ he thought to make a big hero a hisself an’ drew out to put ol’ Jake down. But Jake seed him, an’ fast as a rattlersnake, he whirl’d round an’ put a bullet right in poor Mike’s heart. Billy jumped off to the side b’fore he could git hisself plugged too, an’ then he started a-shootin’ at Jake. They traded slugs fer a bit, but Jake made it to his horse, an’ mounted up, an’, b’fore ya know’d it, he’d a high-tailed it out a town an’ forded the Blue River an’ disappeared into the Hainted Hills on the other side. A-course, thur were nary a peep outta the Sher’ff an’ his deputies, since they was still a-sleepin’ off Saturday night back at the town pokey.

“So, thur was poor Billy with his brother in his arms, a-bleedin’ out his last. Mike were dead already, dead a-fore he hit the boardwalk, but Billy was a-talkin’ away at him, goin’ on ‘bout a-marryin’ up an’ a-makin’ thur own ranch north a the Cattails. Folks finally had to pull him off Mike so’s the body could be loaded on a cart an’ hauled off to his mama an’ papa’s dirt patch down to the river.

“Finally, a few days after the funeral, Billy got it into his young head what Mike were flown off yonder. He never was dead serious b’fore ‘bout nothin’, an’ he’d a-never pondered much ‘bout things like honor an’ revenge—an’ ‘specially he was never too serious ‘bout his shootin’. But he told his mama an’ his papa what he was a-gonna git after ol’ Jake Bascomb, an’ he was a-gonna plow him under—or git put under hisself. They didn’t say nothin’ agin him doin’ jus’ that, but maybe they was a-waitin’ fer him to cool down ‘cause the rains had started, an’ the river got up, an’ it would be three months or so b’fore he could ford it. Thur jus’ weren’t no good bridge to cross the Blue River, an’ thur weren’t nowhere to cross till the floods let up.

“So, Billy practiced up hard on his shootin’, an’ he got purty good. An’ he did cool down a little when he got more sure a hisself. He prob’ly weren’t no gunslinger yet, but the av’rage fella wouldn’t-a stood much chance agin him by the time he got done trainin’ hisself.

“So, it were durin’ this time, ‘twixt shorin’ up his gun skills an’ the end a the floods what he had a little space to start thinkin’ agin an’ feelin’ somethin’ agin more than hot hate. An’ so he caught sweet on Jenny Dillard, the daughter a the telegraph man, Glen Dillard.

“A course, Billy had caught the eye a Jenny Dillard since he helped d’fend her pa. But more than that, she seed after courtin’ a bit what she did actually think pretty high on him fer a man, as ya might say. She come to really love him nigh the end a the floods. More’s the pity, I guess, since no matter how much she begged an’ pleaded, he weren’t to be turned aside, tellin’ her ‘bout his honor an’ his manhood.

“‘But what good’s honor gonna do ya,’ says Jenny, ‘if y’er dead. I cain’t eat revenge, Billy. I cain’t git no satisfaction a-huggin’ a dead man.’

“‘Who says I’m a-fixin’ to die, Jenny?’ says Billy. ‘An’ anyway, what kind of a man can I be if I ain’t got no honor? How can I hold my head up an’ look other folks in the eye, let alone my ma and my pa, without I done right by poor Mike? You ain’t gonna want to hug the kind a man I’d be if I didn’t have my pride. An’ who’s a-gonna git after my pride fer me other’n me? Will it be the Sher’ff? Nigh three months, an’ he ain’t said nary a thing ‘bout gittin’ after Jake Bascomb. He ain’t even, fer as I heard, sent off a telegram to the Territorial. Ain’t even gonna be a federal marshal. Mike’s jus’ dead to the law. No, Jenny, ain’t nobody but me.’

“Few days later, Billy Odettes saddled up, a pistol in his belt, a repeater an’ a scattergun in his trap, an’ a saddlebag filled with jerky on one side an’ amm’nition on the other. Jenny Dillard was a-cryin’ her eyes out, but she kissed him goodbye anyways. Papa Phil Odettes said Billy a quiet goodbye. Mama Mitsy Odettes jus’ stood starin’.”

---

Now, Josh Billings hauled hisself up off his stool and staggered out the back to have hisself a piss in the alley. The troopers called after him to hurry it up an’ plant his sorry ass back where it belonged. He allowed how he’d be pleased to come back an’ satisfy them if he heard a full glass a beer hit the counter nigh his stool a-fore his wore-out boots crossed the threshold a the back door. An’ as he was a-clumpin’ out to take care a his bus’ness, he heard jus’ the sound he was a-longin’ fer. He weren’t really ready to take a piss yet, but he done it anyhow. An’ jus’ fer effect, as ya might say, he found hisself a not-quite-all-smoked ceegar in the rubbish, lit it, an’ puffed out its last. Jus’ wouldn’t do to give ‘em more story so quick. He waited till he heard ‘em inside a-clamorin’ an’ talkin’ ‘bout sendin’ someone out to look fer him, an’ then he made his grand re-entrance. He got some cheers, an’ he got some calls fer a beatin’ if he didn’t get back to the story purty quick-like. He jus’ gave ’em all a little smile with his mouth full a nasty teeth an’ shuffled back to re-plant hisself.

“Now, where was I?’ asked Josh.

“Billy were jus’ ‘bout to git out ‘cross the river after Jake,” said one a the troopers.

“An’ Jenny was all a-weepin’ fer him, wantin’ him not to go out,” said big ol’ Sarge.

Ever’body gave out a good laugh, an’ Sarge went red.

Josh took a big swig outta his tall glass a beer an’ sighed his satisfaction. He waited a minute, lookin’ round the room. They was all waitin’ on him, an’ some a ‘em was looking more’n a little perturbed. Jus’ when Sarge started to open up his big yap, Josh went on agin.

---

“Well, now. Let’s see. Yah. Now that the floods was done an’ gone fer the year, the stagecoach line had built a pontoon bridge ‘cross the Blue River so’s the stage could take the road east to Fort Defiance an’ parts b’yond. So, Billy Odettes crossed the river easy enough. His folks, an’ Jenny Dillard, an’ her pa Glen Dillard, an’ some few a the townsfolk what giv’d a damn was a-wavin’ thur arms off, but Billy didn’t turn to ‘em; he jus’ rode calmly on—‘cause that’s how a man does it, ya know.

“He come to the Hainted Hills ‘bout ten o’clock, an’ figgered to be outta that place by sundown. But thur was lots a muddy holes still blockin’ the road, an’ rockslides, an’ he had to pick his way careful through it all, ‘less he lose his horse the first day out. No, that wouldn’t do, so he made his way careful-like, an’ sundown come, an’ thur he was stuck ‘bout in the middle. It were a high an’ bright moon that night, so he went on. Nobody wants to git stuck in the Hainted Hills at night.

“Sure ‘nough, the dreadful thing happened. ‘Round ‘bout midnight—when such things usually happen—jus’ as Billy was comin’ into the last line a hills what let out to the flats an’ the easier road, the frightful thing happened. Three figgers appeared in the moonlight up on top a the greatest hill to the north. They begun to hollerin’ like banshees at the moon, an’ poor Billy’s skin crawled like a pail full a worms. His horse began to spook, an’ ‘fore ya know it, he rared up an’ shot away like a bolt a thunder. An’ thur was poor Billy on his rear end in a mudhole, in the moonlight, shinin’ out clear as day to them haints on top a the hill.

“Some say the hills really is hainted. Spirits a the Skins lurkin’ ‘bout still, cryin’ out thur pains an’ sadness ‘cause a the great battle fought thur forty years ago, the battle what drove ‘em out an’ give decent folk the chance to settle down in the valley a the Blue River an’ build up towns like New Bend. But some say the army didn’t drive all a them Skins out an’ that a ragged few still live in thur, a-scarin’ passersby, an’ howlin’ so loud at night the folks in New Bend can hear ‘em faint an’ far when the sleep won’t come.

“Well, Billy didn’t neither know nor care, but he jus’ wanted to be away. But he kept his head, so to speak, an’ he walked along his road like he said he was a-gonna. The haints sure took notice a him, alright. They begun a-hollerin’ thur gibb’rish at him, hollerin’ an’ a-hollerin’. An’ somehow he took thur meanin’. Then he started hearin’ ticks an’ skitters all round him, but he still walked on, even with his legs a-wobblin’. But when he felt a thud in his back, that was all he could take, an’ he run outta the hills like the Devil hisself were a-doggin’ his heels. Weren’t till sunrise he had the wits to stop runnin’, an’ that’s when he found the stone arrow stuck in the collar a his coat.

“He’d reached the straightaway toward Fort Defiance, but he didn’t s’pose he could stop jus’ yet an rest ‘cause he figgered his horse’d be somewheres nigh. He were right, a-course. After all, his horse were a civilized sort, an’ he stuck nigh the road. Two miles on Billy come on him an’ made friends with him agin. Billy an’ the horse was spent out good by the time they come into Fort Defiance jus’ as the sun went down. The soldiers looked kind on him an’ let him in, an’ he spent the night safe in the barracks. Still, he were sure he could hear the haints a-howlin’, an’ it took him a good long time to git friendly with his pillow an’ let the Sandman have him.

“In the mornin’ b’fore the sun he got woke up by the bugler. Right after the mornin’ feed, jus’ as he was ‘bout to help out with the early chores, he got called into the commandant’s quarters.

“‘What brings you this way out a the Hainted Hills, young man?’ asks Major Brawley.

“‘I come outta New Bend, sir,’ says Billy.

“‘That weren’t hard to figger,’ says the Major. ‘Ya got the mud a New Bend all over ya, an’ yer horse is the kinda paint they like in New Bend. So that don’t tell me nothin’ ‘bout why ya come this way an’ why ya’s so ragged out we was obliged to put you an’ yer horse up fer the night.’

“‘I ain’t sure that’s any a yer bus’ness, sir, if ya don’t mind my sayin’ so,’ says Billy.

“‘It wouldn’t be,’ says the Major, ‘cept ya made it my bus’ness. Ever’thing happens inside an’ round this fort is my bus’ness when I come ‘ware a it. Maybe I can help you out—or leastways set ya on the right road.’

“And maybe you’d like to stop me cold, thought Billy. But he were a honest young man, an’ he answered like he was s’posed to. ‘I come outta New Bend an’ through the Hainted Hills to git up after Jake Bascomb.’

“‘Ya don’t say!’ says the Major, an’ he had a good laugh. ‘Ya come out all by yerself, or did the haints git the others?’

“‘Thur ain’t no others,’ says Billy, none too pleased.

“‘Yer gonna take Jake Bascomb all by yerself, ya young pup?’ asks the Major Brawley. ‘Are ya a name?’

“‘No, I ain’t no name,’ says Billy. ‘I’m jus’ Billy Odettes. Jake Bascomb killed my brother Mike an’ got clean away b’fore the floods. But I swear to the God who made me he ain’t so far away I cain’t touch him.’

“‘I think y’er a young fool, Mr. Odettes,’ says the Major. ‘But I can see I cain’t stop ya without I lock ya up fer yer own good. That I ain’t-a gonna do. You took on a man’s part, an’ I’m gonna treat ya as a man should be treated.’

“‘I thank ya,’ says Billy.

“‘Don’t,’ says the Major. ‘Yer trottin’ right out to yer death.’

“‘Well,’ says Billy, ‘the law ain’t got no plans to make this right. I’m all thur is to set the balance. ‘Less, a-course, you’d like to put forth an’ set things straight.’

“‘Ya know I cain’t,’ says the Major. ‘Nobody’s never set a charge on Jake Bascomb fer this’un. ‘Sides, the rumor’s up that the Skins is plannin’ one last big hurrah fer this fall, an’ I gotta put all my efforts into protectin’ the Territory. I gotta pave the way fer General Whitmore an’ the Third Cavalry.’

“‘Well, that’s that,’ says Billy. ‘I’d like to git on my way then.’

“‘Ya can git on, if ya must,’ says Major Brawley, ‘but I’d like ya to change yer thinkin’. What y’er about ain’t lawful, strictly speakin’. An’ my heart wants to help you out, but the law’s agin it. Best I can do is log ya in as a young man who rode out an’ pressed a unsubstantiated charge agin Jake Bascomb. I can send a rider over to New Bend an’ inquire a the Sher’ff. If he confirms the charge, I can send a wire off to the Marshal in Big Oaks an’ hope he’s got enough time an’ interest to settle the matter. But I know that ain’t gonna satisfy yer needs good enough.’

“‘Y’er right thur,’ says Billy. ‘The trail’s already cold. It’ll be ice by the time the Marshal looks into things—if he ever does. I said it b’fore: I’m all thur is.’

“‘But I can give ya a little legal cover,’ says Major Brawley, ‘’sumin’ ya come out alive an’ still need it. An’ I can tell ya where to look. I’ve heard tell that there’s this place in the South nigh the Border called the Long Draw. The Skins used to have a place thur, but now it’s said to be a hideout for crim’nals all ‘cross the Territory. But blest if I know how y’er gonna walk into this Long Draw an’ walk out agin. Them cutthroats’ll kill ya sooner’n look at ya.’

“‘One thing at a time, I guess, sir,’ says Billy. ‘First, I gotta find the place.’

“‘I cain’t help ya much with that,’ says the Major, ‘’cept to say that we think this place is somewheres south a the Redlands, maybe somewhere inside the Sandy Ridges. At any rate, that’s the onliest location I can figger. So, draw out a my stores whatever provisions ya need, or at least can carry. Go heavy on the canteens. The Redlands is a long crossin’ an’ dry as all the dry bones ever thur was.’

“‘Thank ya, sir,’ says Billy. ‘I’ll be outta yer hair in a hour or so.’

“‘Ya should stay the night,’ says Major Brawley, ‘but I know ya won’t. That’s yer affair, I s’pose. I wish ya all the good luck an’ God’s mercy that’s left in this bad ol’ world.’”

---

That said, Josh Billings left off agin. His glass were dry, an’ he were comin’ to the ends a his vigor. But he were still a pr’fessional, ya know, an’ he were determined to see his way through. He left the soldiers a-grumblin’ whilst he ambled out to take a sniff or two a the night cool. The lamps was lit up bright tonight fer the use a the cavalry boys, an’ the stars wasn’t thurfore as bright as ol’ Josh mighta liked it, the stars always havin’ give him the insp’ration he wanted to ply his trade.

The tug a sleep lulled him more’n he woulda liked. He leaned agin a post an’ old thoughts carried him away for a bit. He’d always wondered ‘bout stories, who told ‘em, an’ what fer. Fer as he know’d, folks had been a-tellin’ tales since a day or two after Creation. What was God up to, an’ what did he want? Tales maybe fell down a little from thur, or maybe they got more ‘phisticated, or jus’ got told a little diff’r’nt, but folks has always been a-tellin’ ‘em. But what fer? Sure, they can relax ya after a long, hard day an’ after supper’s been et, or, in hard times, in place a supper. But lookin’ up to the stars can relax ya—or throwin’ a stick fer yer dog—or combin’ out yer horse—or, if y’er lucky, beddin’ down wi’ yer lady love.

Why tell stories might be as big as all a time itself? Time is its own story, a course, an’ God knows time, so He knows the whole story, as ya might say. But, for us little folk in the big ol’ world, we knows only a little bit a the big story at a time, so to speak. But what good is a story, more than fer noddin’ off when sleep don’t want ya? Why’s people been speakin’ ‘em, or singin’ ‘em, or writin’ ‘em out since time outta mind?

People’ll sit round an’ hear out a good ‘un even when sleep ain’t nothin’ they want. Folks’ll stand or sit about an’ listen to a good ‘un, drop whatever they was a-doin’ in the middle of a day, jus’ fer the seemin’ pure pleasure a it. Men will come into a saloon an’ pay an ol’ drunk in beers an’ shots an’ praise, shell out their hard-earned bits an’ dollars just to hear ‘bout the doin’s a days long gone. But why? Whadda they git outta it?

Josh Billings had a answer, but he didn’t d’rive no comfort from it. Ya see, he weren’t no workin’ type, leastways not in the normal sense. He weren’t a mover or a shaker, nor strictly a tool a the movers an’ shakers. He were a agin’, pr’fessional layabout an’ drunk-on-any-drinkable-he-could-glom-onto type a fella. The fruits a the still, an’ a occasional solid meal, sustained his body. Laughter, ‘plause, an’ a eager ear sustained his soul. But all this come from men who did things in the world. All his sustenance come from folks who did him no honor, ‘cept fer a few hours from time to time when they’d worked up the extra coin to lavish upon him fer his no-account accounts.

Josh Billings had him a answer to his uncomfortable question. Ya see, things don’t happen ‘less folks got a reason to make ‘em happen. But ya jus’ cain’t tell ‘em straight out what needs doin’ an’ ‘spect ‘em to do it. They gotta have a tie to it, a tie in thur guts, so to speak. They gotta feel the need. Jus’ seein’ a thing or knowin’ a thing ain’t enough. Jus’ seein’ a hawk in the sky don’t mean ya wanna fly, ‘less flyin’ means somethin’ to ya, an’ a hawk flyin’ makes ya think a that thing. That thing that ya want is the meanin’ a the hawk to ya. It’s the story ya tells yerself ‘bout hawks an’ what they mean in the world. Ya tells yerself the story, an’ suddenly ya thinks all ‘bout flyin’, an’ ya feels like ya wanna fly yerself, an’ maybe ya start thinkin’ ‘bout how ya might do that some day. The most willful folks, as ya might say, git thur gumption up, an’ b’fore ya know it, thurs some kinda gadget that’ll take ‘em up in the air. Yeah, Josh had heard a big ol’ bubbles with seats attached that hauled men up into the sky. Yeah, an’ he’d heard thur was a couple a crazy fellas back East who’s a-workin’ on some kinda noise-makin’ contraption with wings like a bird. Not ‘xactly hawks, them gadgets, but closin’ in.

Yeah, folks don’t do nothin’ ‘thout somebody give ‘em a idea all cloaked up in a tale ‘bout somebody somewheres else havin’ done somethin’ like it in some way. Story don’t even hafta be strictly true, but only have the seemin’ like truth. It’s gotta have feelin’s an’ doin’s such that folks can feel along with it. It cain’t stray too far from what folks knows. It can be ‘bout steam engines, or sailin’ ships, or battles long ago, or even fays an’ ogres an’ battles that never happened an’ seas that never been sailed, ‘long as it’s got enough a what folks knows is true to be felt by ‘em. An’ it can be told by somebody as they know never hoed a row, never hefted a shovel, never shot a man in hot blood or cold, so long as that fella has the gift a makin’ it feel real.

I’m that fella, thought Josh, a-comin’ back to hisself, back into the light a the street lamps, an’ I’d best git back inside.

---

“Settle down, now, settle down. Billy Odettes didn’t go nowheres whilst I was outside.

“Let’s see, now. Billy were fittin’ out fer his long way when I left off. Well, he rode out southward that vury day, jus’ like he said he would. His horse weren’t none too happy, a-course, but what else could Billy do? He said he were a-gonna do it, an’ a man does as he speaks.

“‘Twere ‘bout ten miles out from Fort Defiance what he saw he was a-bein’ follered on the left side a the trail. That side was ridges an’ trees, but the day were fairly sunny an’ he could see a human figger flashin’ every now an’ agin in the bright spots. He couldn’t tell whether ‘twas man or woman, or white, or negra, or furren. He sure woulda liked it were a furren girl—from one a them places where the folks’ skin was yeller, though that didn’t seem vury likely. He saw one a them girls passin’ through New Bend with her folks. They’s ugly as sin, but she were ‘bout the purtiest little thing his eyeballs ever lit on.

“Anyways, he rode three days b’fore he come into Hardwater. Each day this follerin’ figger kept comin’ on a little closer. On the third day, just b’fore he come into town, he could make out it were a man, an’ damned if it didn’t have clothes on like one a them Skins, buskins all over an’ a red headband. This Skin didn’t have no horse, but somehow he managed to keep up with Billy, an’ get closer day by day.

“Billy were purty glad to come into Hardwater. He didn’t figger that Skin would foller him no further. Skins didn’t care much fer civilization, an’ they sure couldn’t afford these days to git caught a-doggin’ a White.

“Billy were bone-weary, an’ his horse was a-stumblin’ when he dragged into the dusty little town a Hardwater. They didn’t call it Hardwater ‘cause thur’s a lot a minerals in the water, ya know, but ‘cause water were so damn hard to come by. The only reason thur was even a town thur is ‘cause there was a partic’larly purty kind a red fox in the area, an’ some a the folks could make a livin’ huntin’ an’ trappin’ ‘em. But the foxes was runnin’ low after fifteen years a constant huntin’, an’ so now thur main source a income were caterin’ to outlaws on thur way South.

“When Billy come in an’ right away, weary as he was, started inquirin’ after Jake Bascomb, they got purty cagey right off. They’d a prob’ly killed him right off, but he come in from the north, an’ they could see some a his gear come from the army. So, they either clammed up or lied when he come with his questions. They sure didn’t want to do Jake no wrong, him bein’ a prime source a income an’ havin’ a temper like a wounded grizzly when his back got up.

“One thing ‘bout Billy Odettes: he weren’t stupid. Young an’ headstrong, maybe even foolish—but not stupid. He figger’d out quick enough that he were on the right trail. But he didn’t know what way to go from here. So, bright young man as he was, he kept on a-askin’ which way the outlaws might go if they’s to come through Hardwater an’ then git to leavin’. Well, they told him every way ‘cept the South way through Big Pines. Didn’t take a lot a figgerin’ then to know which way to go.

“But not all the townsfolk was stupid neither, an’ they quick figger’d out that Billy’d figger’d it out. They s’posed they better put him outta their misery b’fore he wrecked ever’thing with Jake Bascomb an’ his crew. They surrounded him with clubs an’ shovels an’ such to do him in, an’ Billy had out his scattergun to sell hisself as dear as possible. But jus’ as the first feller stepped in with his club to take a swing, five a Billy’s enemies fell down in the street, filled up so full a feathered arrows they looked like man-size chickens.

“The townsfolk took off to git thur firearms, an’ Billy high-tailed it outta thur by the southward way. He didn’t git no more’n half a mile b’fore he heard gunfire. He wondered hard ‘bout it, but he didn’t look back. Him an’ the horse was so scared they went on fifteen miles b’fore they had to stop an’ rest what was left a the night, rampagin’ Skins, murderin’ townsfolk, or demons from Hell follerin’ behind.

“When he waked up next mornin’ Billy seed that same Skin a-watchin’ him, no more’n two hundred feet away. That feller foller’d him another week till he come on Big Pines an’ went up into the hills. He couldn’t see that Skin no more, but he knew he was still out there. What he wanted Billy couldn’t figger, but Billy know’d now he were gonna have a travelin’ companion fer a good spell.

“Anyways, Billy was in Big Pines, an’ when he spied the first homestead ‘mong the trees, he figger’d he might have bigger trouble’n that Skin shadow. If these folks was anything like the folks in Hardwater, an’ if this was the onliest way Jake Bascomb coulda come, the trouble in Hardwater wouldn’t hold a candle to this trouble he was a-comin’ in on. But what else was thur? He made a promise, an’ neither the law nor the cavalry was gonna uphold it fer him. No, he was all thur was.

“Funny thing ‘bout Big Pines, by the way: the pines wasn’t all that big. Fact, they was kinda scrawny—at least fer such a name as Big Pines. That’s when Billy learnt a important lesson ‘bout his part a the country: the onliest things what growed big thur was deserts, mountains, an’ tales.

“Anyways, Billy Odettes was in Big Pines, such as it was, an’ the folks thur seed him long b’fore he seed them. ‘Bout a mile in he spied folks a-gatherin’ on the trail ahead a him, an’ it looked fer all the world like a wall a rifles an’ scatterguns. Thur was even womenfolk an’ kids standin’ thur a-heftin’ firearms. He stopped an’ took a drink an’ looked on ‘em for a time, thinkin’ ‘bout what he was a-gonna do. They sure couldn’t a know’d he was up after Jake Bascomb, but thur they was anyhow a-waitin’ to put a stop to Billy. An’ he didn’t s’pose he could count on them Skins agin. Whatever thur strange reason fer helpin’ out, they prob’ly got drove off back in Hardwater—all ‘cept that persistent scutter who’s prob’ly skulkin’ in the woods right now. If he had any sense, he’d a gone home, but Billy s’posed he wanted somethin’ an’ were gonna foller on till he got Billy to understand what it were—or till he got hisself killed.

“Not knowin’ what else to do, an’ not willin’ to forsake his duty, Billy Odettes rode on in. As he come closer, the people an’ thur guns kept gettin’ bigger, ‘specially in Billy’s head, an’ more a ‘em was a-comin’ in. By the time he got close enough to parley, thur musta been forty or fifty a ‘em, standin’ thur, a-glarin’ murder on him.

“‘What are ya a-doin’ in Big Pines, young feller?’ asks the head man. He was a older fella with a face like a buffalo.

“‘I’m a-passin’ through,’ says Billy.

“‘Thurs only two kinds ever pass through Big Pines, young feller,’ says the buffalo man, ‘an’ that’s army an’ outlaws. Ya ain’t a outlaw, ‘less ya got stones bigger’n the Rocky Mountains. Ya got the stink a Fort Defiance all over ya.’

“‘Yeah,’ says Billy, ‘I been to Fort Defiance, an’ the Major give me a few supplies.’

“They leveled thur guns at him.

“‘Then y’er no friend a ours,’ says the head man. ‘If ya turn round an’ head back along yer trail, we’ll let ya live.’

“‘Cain’t do it,’ says Billy slow-like, a-musterin’ all his grit. ‘I made a vow, an’ I aim to come through on it.’

“‘That’s sure admir’ble,’ says the buffalo, ‘but it’s gonna git ya dead. Any last words?’

“‘Jake Bascomb,’ says Billy Odettes.

“That took ‘em by su’prise. ‘What ‘bout Jake Bascomb?’ asks the buffalo. ‘An’ understand, b’fore ya answer, all here is kin to Jake.’

“‘He killed my brother in New Bend whilst he was a-robbin’ the telegraph,’ says Billy, sayin’ in his head his Last Prayer to God.

“Jake’s kinfolk talked ‘mong themselves fer a long spell. At last, the buffalo man turned, an’ he asks, ‘Ya know it fer sure?’

“‘Yeah,’ says Billy. ‘I seed it with my own eyes. I traded shots with Jake Bascomb, but I weren’t much of a gun hand then.’

“‘So ya figger ya got a vengeance comin’ then?’ asks the buffalo man.

“‘Yeah,’ says Billy.

“‘I b’lieve ya,’ says the buffalo. ‘But only you an’ Jake knows the what’s what a it. I guess that’s a thing to be settled ‘twixt ya. But ya know Jake ain’t nigh so hospitable as we is. Even if he ‘members ya, he might shoot ya down on sight. An if ya git close ‘nough to state yer claim, he might not be in a mood to give ya a fair fight. Here, take this necklace an’ wear it proud. Jake’ll know where it come from. He’ll be more inclined to treat ya fair when he sees doin’ elsewise’ll earn him our ill pleasure.’

“‘Um, goodbye,’ says Billy, ‘an’ thanks to you.’

“‘I cain’t say “Goodbye”,’ says the head man, ‘’cause y’er lookin’ to do in kin a ours. But I will say thanks to you—fer not bringin’ yer own kin along. We’s jus’ too far away from New Bend to make a good feud.’

“So, Billy Odettes come through Big Pines alive an’ with a boon. But he still had the Redlands ahead a him. Redlands is over a hunnerd miles a fearsome dry an’ burnin’ sun. It ain’t as hot as some deserts, so I hear, but ‘twixt the rippin’ sand an’ the unmerciful sun, it’ll take the hide off a circus elephant in a day. Even if his horse held up, there’s no way Billy coulda made the crossin’ in less’n a week.

“The Redlands, so says a fancy-pants pr’fess’r outta some big school back East, is red ‘cause it’s full a iron. Only we cain’t mine the iron ‘cause it’s bound up with the sand an’ ya git as much bad glass, an’ most a the iron still in the glass, when ya smelt it down. But the iron makes the sand heavy, an’ it gits in ya ever’where. But worst a all, it gits all in yer mouth an’ throat an’ puts the taste a blood an’ death most on yer mind.

“But Billy hadda cross, an’ had come through alright so far ‘twixt a shoot-out, haints, a army fort, Skins, a bad town, an’ hostile kinfolk. So, he had to trust God’s Providence one more time.

“It were hard, sore hard, as ya might ‘spect. The poor horse keeled over an’ died fifty miles in. Seventy miles in the water ran out. I s’pose a feller who spent all his young life by a river don’t really know how to ration his water proper. Eighty miles in he had to drop the last a the food an’ the extra amm’nition. Ninety miles in he had to lose the repeater an’ the scattergun. A pistol an’ a knife, a empty canteen, an’ the last dregs a his determination was all he had to carry him thirty more miles to Little Blood River where he could drink hot, rusty water an’ hope it didn’t do to him what the desert couldn’t.

“An’ all the time, that Skin kept on a-follerin’. At times, there’d be a bunch a ‘em, all on one side or t’other a him, an’ he’d be obliged to turn his course till they melted away. After eighty miles, his eyes couldn’t register ‘em proper no more, an’ they seemed more an’ more like angels to his feeble mind. Whether they’s Heav’n’s angels or Hell’s, he didn’t care now even a little. He didn’t give ‘em no trouble, an’ he went the way they wanted him to go. I s’pose they even give him some hope, an’ he come through to the Little Blood an’ drank till he puked, an’ the rust didn’t kill him.

“Three days later he was wanderin’ among the Sandy Ridges, lost to hisself thur, barely recallin’ why he’d come this way, thinkin’ he mighta come into another world where thur was only stony walls, an’ lizards, an’ cloudless sky. He woulda figgered on dyin’ thur, an’ Jenny Dillard, an’ his folks, an’ revenge, an’ any other reason to come out alive was forgot to him—but that Skin was always thur, pointin’ out the right way, or so he hoped.

“Six days he wended through the Sandy Ridges, an’ he wouldn’ta made it if that helpful Skin hadn’t give him a roast hare every night. Thur was water holes from time to time with some plants growin’ round, an’ that’s where the hares come to eat, but Billy didn’t have the strength left or the ammunition to spare to do any huntin’ on his own, not that he ever was any hand at such things.

“He come out in the mornin’ a the seventh day into the mouth of a cut so deep it were black inside. Thur was a wide, dead river bed dolve straight into it. It had to be the Long Draw. He wept a little, I must say—but quiet-like—an’ he ‘membered who he was an’ what he was a-doin’. Somehow, a fair part a his vigor come back into him, an’ all the last a his dead weight, his childhood an’ his hate, had come off him. His heart was light as a feather, as them ancient folks might tell it, for he had only one purpose remainin’ to him: the reason he’d come all this way. Didn’t nothin’ else make a spit to him. He were gonna do his deed, even if it killed him. Any outcome was fine, long as it included Jake Bascomb lyin’ dead in the dust.”

---

Josh Billings put away the last swallers a his beer. He were well an’ truly hammered up an’ down now. But he were a pr’fessional. His story weren’t done. But he couldn’t finish it up till he cleared his head out a little. He was really walkin’ the storyteller’s tightrope now. His list’ners was pretty tight too, as ya might say, an’ they was tired. If Sarge called ‘em back to camp now, they’d leave without a fuss, even though they was rapt into the story.

Why didn’t I just get a reg’lar job? thought Josh—not fer the first time, a-course. Reg’lar hours an’ no fightin’ through a alcoholic fugue to hammer home the last nail, so to speak. An’ fer what? So’s I can wait fer another night to do it agin when the stage comes in, or the cavalry boys comes in from a-feudin’ with the Skins, or the train breaks down an’ has to make a layover?

An’ why do it this way? Why? ‘Cause it were the only way to do it here, in Whalen. Whalen didn’t have no library. It didn’t have no theater stage. It didn’t even have a town square. The only place outside a church where any folks could be counted on to gather was the saloons. An’ the onliest thing to do in a saloon other’n tell stories was drink.

But why tell stories? What did it git him? Folks recalled the tales, often fondly, but they didn’t recall him ‘specially, an’ almost none ‘cept the bartender an’ the owner a the Dead Fly Saloon could call him by name.

Josh Billings had a answer to this question too. As usual, it were a answer what disturbed him mightily. Stories was who he was. They was all he had in the world, an’ he didn’t really want nothin’ else. Blacksmiths was know’d by thur smithin’. Wives was know’d by thur wivin’, an’ motherin’, an’, God willin’, grandmotherin’. Sher’ffs was know’d fer thur sher’ffin’. An’ preachers was know’d fer thur preachin’. But storytellers was know’d fer thur stories. A sher’ff could be know’d fer what kind a man he was, an’ his nam’d be attached to that knowin’. A wife might be know’d fer her pie bakin’, or even fer her skill at somethin’ wives don’t usually do where others can git to know ‘bout it, like singin’ or paintin’ purty pictures. But a storyteller, out West at least, ain’t know’d: only his stories git know’d, if he’s any good at his craft.

If this night went off like he wanted, only Billy Odettes would git know’d. Josh Billings would die off—an’ prob’ly sooner than later—an’ only Billy Odettes an’ a few other a his best stuff would remain. He prob’ly wouldn’t even git a named marker in the town cemetery. He wouldn’t be know’d no more fer a good man or a bad ‘un. He’d jus’ be dead an’ gone, an’ with luck, Billy would live on ferever—‘sumin’ he got through his tussle with Jake Bascomb.

---

“Okay, fellers, we’re a-closin’ in on it. So, thur was Billy a-lookin’ down the mouth a the snake, so to speak. An’ it were close ‘nough ta strike an’ kill. Ya see, if he could see the Draw, anybody a-lookin’ out from it could sure see him. A good shot coulda shot him if he had a decent long rifle. But it were silent all over, ‘cept a few birds a-chirpin’, an’ one lonesome coyote fer ‘way a-lettin’ on ‘bout his troubles every few minutes.

“Nothin’ else fer it, Billy come on in, closer an’ closer, whilst the sun climbed up. It were ten or eleven o’clock b’fore him an’ the sun got t’gether, as ya might say, an’ he seed what’s what. He seed two figgers standin’ up on high, plain as the daylight, one to each side a the cut, a-lookin’ down on him. They was Skins! He was right confused fer sure. Was the outlaws usin’ Skins fer lookouts? Was the Skins a-trailin’ him all the way jus’ fer fun, so’s they could watch when Jake did him in? Or, was they a-pavin’ the way, helpin’ him on fer some purpose a thur own, jus’ like it seemed they’d been a-doin’ all along?

“It didn’t matter, ‘cause Billy couldn’t read minds, an’ he still had his thing to do. Well, thur he was, finally able to git a good look down the Long Draw. It were a wide wash fer the Gully Buster River what was only a river in the spring an’ fall when the big rains come ‘cross the desert lands. It tore through the last a the Sandy Ridges an’ left a big cut, almost straight as a bowshot, runnin’ damn nigh due North an’ South. Every now an’ agin, when the wind turnt jus’ right outta the South, Billy could catch a whiff a the sea-tang. An’ now that he had his eyes up, he thought he could spot white birds up over the ridges.

“Inside the Long Draw thur was a little town. He could see shingles hung out over the holes that let onto shallow caves, where ‘parently outlaw folks was a-livin’ an’ doin’ thur daily bus’ness. On his right side, he could see ‘Laundry’, an’ ‘Leathers’, an’ ‘Shooin’’, an’ ‘Vittles’, an’ the like. An’ on his left side, he could see ‘Sharples’, then ‘Morrison’, then ‘Farley’, then “Bascomb’. Thur was more names, but that was where he stopped lookin’, that bein’ all he needed to see.

“Thur didn’t seem to be nobody out, ‘cept the Skins atop the cut, so in he went. He got right up to the shingle he wanted an’ looked into the cave as best he could, but the sun was positioned so’s he couldn’t see nothin’ but black. Thur didn’t seem to be nothin’ else to do, an’ he wanted to do somethin’ b’fore the last a his vigor slipped away, so he yelled: ‘Jake Bascomb! Git out here an’ face yer justice!’

“Well, if he wanted people, Billy got ‘em in a twinklin’. Quick as spittin’, he was hedged in a wall a pistols an’ implements a all description. Needless to say, thur weren’t a friendly face in the bunch, but weren’t none a the faces the one what belonged to Jake Bascomb.

“In a few moments, a voice come outta the cave. ‘Who the hell’s a-callin’ on Jake Bascomb, an’ shoutin’ shit like ‘justice’ an’ all? Only ‘justice’ is me a-livin’ an’ anybody pisses me off a-dyin’. Why don’t I jus’ let my people do ya right now so’s I can go back to sleep?’

“‘It’s Billy Odettes,’ says Billy.

“‘What the hell’s a Billy Odettes?’ says the voice a Jake. ‘Ain’t that the name a some little boy a-tryin’ to chaw t’bacci like his paw?’

“‘That may be, Jake Bascomb,’ says Billy, ‘but honor says y’er a-gonna look on me proper b’fore I find my grave.’

“‘Honor?’ asks Jake’s voice. ‘What does a boy know ‘bout it, ‘cept what was read to him from a storybook? Thur ain’t no honor ‘cept dead enemies an’ spendin’ loot!’

“That got a good laugh outta the crowd.

“‘I knows damn good an’ well what honor means, Jake Bascomb!’ shouts Billy. ‘You killed my brother this spring in New Bend, you sum bitch! That makes you still bein’ alive a matter a honor fer me. An’ this here necklace I got from yer kinfolk in Big Pines makes it a blood matter fer you. Turns out the law ain’a gonna git’cha, an’ I’m all thur is. So, git’cher sorry self out here an’ let’s have done!’

“Thur was a shufflin’ an’ a gruntin’ noise comin’ outta the cave. An’ the outlaw folk wasn’t laughin’ no more, but was waitin’ silent to see how it all panned out. Seems even fer folks a thur stripe family still meant somethin’ deep.

“So, thur come Jake Bascomb, halt a his left foot, with a big bandage a-wrapped round his leg, an’ the bare parts a his leg was green as a trout. ‘Yeah, Billy Odettes,’ says Jake, ‘yer brother took a bite outta me. Slug come out quick, but the gangrene come on slow. Ain’t this good ‘nough fer ya, ya little snot? If I cain’t git this leg off soon, yer brother’s gonna have done me in.’

“‘How much did ya git outta the telegraph office?’ asks Billy.

“‘Hell, I dunno,’ says Jake. ‘Weren’t all that much. Maybe a thousund, twelve hunnerd. Why?’

“‘That’s how much what ya did in New Bend was worth to ya,’ says Billy. ‘An maybe ya enjoyed killin’ my brother Mike. Maybe that was worth a nother coupla hunnerd jus’ fer the pleasin’ a it. Let’s call it thirteen hunnerd or so. That’s how much yer leg is worth to ya—an’ it’s gonna turn out that’s what yer whole life is worth to ya. But my brother was worth everything. This ain’t ‘bout you, Jake Bascomb. This is ‘bout kinfolk, brothers, more to the point. Seein’ you suffer don’t please me even a little. But you took my blood, an’ I’m a-gonna see all yer blood, even if it runs green like a dead pond.’

“Well, weren’t no contest. Jake Bascomb went fer his pistol, but weak as Billy was from his travails, Jake were a lot worse off. Jake Bascomb died quick with Billy’s bullet ‘twixt his eyes.

“Now, Billy Odettes had a-killed the Top Dog a the Long Draw. By thur rules that made him the Top Dog. But that didn’t please him none, an’ all he wanted was to be quit a the place. He know’d they wasn’t ‘bout to jus’ let him walk out, leastways not fer a while till he’d proved hisself some. How was he gonna git out an’ git on with any kinda decent life b’fore he got sucked into the outlaw way? He may a been Top Dog in the Long Draw, but he didn’t wanna be no Jake Bascomb.

“When the relief lookouts ‘scovered the ones that was s’posed to be on duty wasn’t, Billy Odettes ‘membered the Skins. That set him to thinkin’ on why they was here, why they’d a-helped him along. It seemed to him that this place mighta been lived in b’fore the outlaws took over the management, as ya might say. Maybe these Skins needed a place to lie up. Maybe they know’d the Third Cavalry was a-comin’ on to put ‘em away fer good. Maybe they didn’t want to live on no Reservation an’ live on gov’ment handouts an’ dress in gov’ment clothes. Maybe they didn’t wanna be ‘bliged to no White folks.

“I know, I know, fellas. But Billy was thinkin’ ‘bout what the Skins might be thinkin’ ‘bout. An’ turns out he had it summed up purty good. Few days after his takin’ over, once he’d a-got fed an’ watered up good an’ strong agin, an’ once him an’ the outlaws got to talkin’ big ‘bout a-raidin’ here an’ there, once Billy had ‘em thinkin’ maybe they’d a-made a change fer the better an’ was ‘bout to hit high times, Billy issued his first order. ‘We’s a-gonna start tradin’ with the Skins,’ he says. ‘Now, now, I know. That’s a risky proposition. But think on it. Skins can hunt like nobody’s bus’ness. An’ they can skulk like cats in the dark. They got ways a knowin’ things. How d’ya s’pose they survived all this time agin the Cavalry an’ the whole countryside turned agin ‘em? If we wants to git the Big Loot, one big rakin’ in an’ then slippin’ off ‘cross the Border to live like kings, we can stomach the Skins fer a while.’

“It took some mighty arguin’ to git them outlaws to ‘gree with that plan, but Billy convinced ‘em finally by shootin’ down two a ‘em. They know’d he meant bus’ness then fer sure, an’ that settled an’ satisfied ‘em. He were truly thur Top Dog. Now, he were a little scared a hisself. He jus’ done things fer real like a outlaw does things, an’ the power a it pleasured him a little. He know’d if he done much more that a-way, he’d be gone fer good—or rather bad.

“It were his good fortune that the Skins was a-watchin’ things purty close. They was ready when the outlaws started makin’ good with ‘em. An’ one day, a couple a weeks later, Billy walked out under the new moon an’ never seed the Long Draw agin. He know’d he done a kinda wrong, an’ the screamin’ b’fore he got completely outta earshot bore him out, but he had to git on in order to save hisself.”

---

The troopers from the Eighth Cavalry wasn’t sure they liked this story now. They started a-grumblin’ an’ a-starin’ at Josh Billings. No, sir. They didn’t like the idea what the hero a the story made good with Skins an’ led White folks to the slaughter to boot. Outlaw White folks is still White folks, after all. Seemed to the troopers that ya cain’t save yer soul from the Devil by sellin’ other people’s souls to him. Dammit! It weren’t right by a long shot. What was Josh a-thinkin’ tellin’ such a tale to the Cavalry, anyhow? Well, Sarge was tougher’n three rattlersnakes, an’ he’d a killed so many Skins on his own account that he were concerned fer his own soul jus’ fer the excess a it. He were drunk an’ mad as hell, an’ he got egged on by his men, an’ he walked right up to Josh, jus’ as Josh was havin’ his last pull outta his tall glass a beer, an’ broke his neck fer him. An’ I’ll tell ya, Sarge were never right in the head agin. Ya see, Josh Billings went outta life with a smile on his face, an’ that hainted poor ol’ Sarge till he got hisself killed in a saloon brawl a few months later.

---

Now, I know all a Josh’s stories. I listened as often as grow’d up folks’d let me, jus’ outside the saloon doors. Josh was right, a-course, ‘bout the marker they give him when they turned him into the earth. I made sure they painted his name on it, but the weather wore the paint off it, an’ it ain’t no more’n a busted stick in the cemetery now. The new keeper ain’t fer sure if Josh’s final rest is even a burial plot, but he leaves the stick thur jus’ in case.

Anyhow, I gotta make a liar outta Josh jus’ a little. Now what we got the phonygraph records an’ can put ever’thing down fer posterity in a voice from the past, I’m a-makin’ records a ever’thing I ever heared Josh Billings say, an’ I’m a-puttin’ his name on them records, big an’ bold. He deserves to git know’d, at least he deserves that his name should be attached to his stories.

So, in that spirit, I’m a-gonna tell ya how the story a Billy Odettes comes to its end:

---

“Well, Billy Odettes weren’t much the wiser ‘bout navigatin’ the Sandy Ridges as he was a-comin’ out from ‘em than he were a-goin’ in. But it turns out them Skins hadn’t forgot him. That feller what follered him all the way from Fort Defiance come on him agin whilst he was lost ‘mong the Ridges.

“He still never spoke. What was the point? An’ I don’t s’pose he could speak Billy’s tongue noways. That Skin feller led Billy out from the Sandy Ridges an’ all the way back, by a shorter trail, to the ford at New Bend. He melted up into the Hainted Hills, an’ Billy never seed him agin’. Although Billy never did warm up to the Skins, ‘cause, like all peoples, they was jus’ as bad as they was good, he did have a respect fer ‘em now. But he never told nobody ‘bout his feelin’s fer them Skins, ‘cause he wanted to have a good life.

“Anyways, Billy’s ma an’ pa was still thur in New Bend. An’ when Billy come back with that necklace from Bascomb’s kinfolk, she know’d what it meant, an’ she finally broke down an’ wept out her tears. An’ Billy’s pa purt’nigh shook his hand off, an’ he called him Bill fer the first time ever. An’ Jenny? Well, Jenny had her private ways to let Bill know she was grateful, an’ she was grateful that Bill had come back—an’ she was ‘specially grateful Bill had come back with the eleven hunnerd an’ twelve dollars Jake Bascomb had a-took outta the telegraph office. Later on it occurred to Bill that maybe Jenny was a little too crafty at displayin’ her gratitude in the private way, but he didn’t never make nothin’ a it.

“His own honor an’ the honor a Glen Dillard all patched up, Bill Odettes come to be the big man in New Bend. Weren’t long b’fore he become Sher’ff Bill Odettes an’ set that bum Wiley Eakins to the road. An’ Major Brawley an’ General Whitmore made thur campaign agin the Skins an’ drove almost all a ‘em outta the Territory an’ into the Big Reservation at Stony Oaks. Yeah, they got damn nigh all a ‘em, ‘cept them ones livin’ in the Long Draw. General Whitmore wanted ‘em bad, too, an’ he threatened Bill Odettes with a long stretch in the Territorial Prison, but Bill swore to his death what he’d a been blindfolded both in an outta the Long Draw an’ couldn’ta told anybody how to git thur even if they’da stretched him out on a rack. The General couldn’t prove nothin’, an’ the folks in New Bend cared fer him greatly, so Bill Odettes lived his life in peace.

“So, if ya don’t count them poor Skins who’s a-livin’ on that Reservation to this day, an’ if ya leave off those what died to make it all happen, ever’body got purty much what they wanted. Bill Odettes sure come through it smellin’ purty good. An’ I think ol’ Josh Billings come away from life jus’ how an’ when he wanted.”

---

So, now it’s customary to say ‘The End’, but I jus’ cain’t say it so’s it has any meanin’ to me. So, I’ll jus’ say, so long, an’ maybe I’ll tell ya a nother ‘un sometime.

WORKADAY

Trees.

Wind.

Rustling leaves.

Falling things.

Nuts?

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Am I?

Grass.

Blades swaying.

Swords of vengeance?

Paranoia?

Poor manners?

Have I been bad?

Falling. Falling.

Nuts.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Am I?

Buzzer sounding.

Buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing.

Not again!

Yawn.

Stretch.

Argh!

Late. Late.

Dress.

Late. Late.

Rolling. Rolling.

Nuts.

Am I?

Work.

Pounding. Pounding.

Nuts.

Am I?

Recurrence.

Trees.

Wind.

Rustling leaves.

Falling things.

Nuts.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Am I?

I must be.

Work.

Pounding. Pounding.

Another day.

INTERPOLATION

The vague, silvery outline of a human form tumbled two-dimensionally through the grey field, looking like a gingerbread cookie might, if gingerbread men were grey. The tumble wasn’t disorienting; it was simply floating, with momentum. But there were no directions, and thus no possibility of orientation or disorientation.

            The aloneness lasted forever—or it didn’t last very long at all; the gingerbread man wasn’t really sure. He was joined by other tumbling, grey shapes outlined in silver. There were other gingerbread people, and triangles, and squares, and dogs, and cats, and umbrellas, and houses, and cars, and numbers, and…, and… The shapes tumbled over one another, approaching randomly, overlapping like Venn diagrams, and separating randomly. It was like a game of Asteroids combined with vacuous pop art. All it needed it needed was the outline of a soup can armed with a ray gun shooting at the tumbling shapes.

            An important Presence grew into the grey aether from a pinpoint to a vaguely female form about the same relative size as the gingerbread man. The gingerbread man and woman floated, tumbling in synch. The gingerbread man knew that the gingerbread woman was important because she came directly to him and synchronized with him. He could detect no other such synchronization. Why had she chosen him?

            He wanted to ask her, but he could not think of how to communicate. He had been able to feel the Great Mother and to feel toward her. He had been able to feel the overwhelming presence of the Great Father. He felt nothing in regard to the gingerbread woman, and, if she regarded him at all, he could not feel that, either.

            But as he intersected and overlapped with more and more of his fellow tumbling shapes, he sensed knowing growing within him. Gradually, the background became cerulean, and the objects around him began to take on a third dimension and color. Eventually, objects assembled themselves into an order that a human mind could recognize.

            As he felt a wind blowing into his face and saw clouds forming in the sky, something clicked in his mind, and his tongue was loosed (now that he knew what a tongue was), and he said: “There it is. I can speak.” He heard himself speaking. “But can you speak?”

            He looked over at his companion and saw that she had formed into a much truer likeness of a human female, nude, shapely, and black-skinned. Her hair was wavy red with honey highlights, and her eyes were luminescent gold. She smiled at the man and said: “Of course I can hear and speak. I have been waiting for you to come online, as you might say.”

            “Very well,” said the man. “Where are we, and why are we here?”

            “You would know best why you are ‘here’,” responded the woman. “Here is wherever you think it is.”

            “Why do visions always have to be so damnably cryptic?” asked the man. “Why can’t your spirit guide just tell you what you need to know?”

            The woman laughed. “You’ll really enjoy this,” she said: “You already know everything you need to know. We are merely reorienting you so that you can understand and give meaning to all that you know.”

            “Pfft!” responded the man. “Meaning is meaningless. The universe is just a collection of raw facts. Attempts to derive meaning produce illusion.”

            “Of course they do,” agreed the woman. “It is the capacity to form these delusions that creates meaning. Without meaning there is no purpose and no reason to act out purpose. Interesting, don’t you think, that existence provides the capacity for some entities to generate purpose-driving delusions?”

---

            “I lost her, Bertrand,” said Beatrice. The hospital room in the maternity ward was dimly lit with early twilight. Beatrice was a silhouette sitting on the edge of the slightly rumpled bed. Bertrand was a standing shadow with its hand resting on Beatrice’s shoulder. Bartholomew was a sleepy lump on a nearby chair, huddled dreamily in a white and red Christmas blanket. It was early morning winter outside, and the sky and the snow-burdened earth were just on the edges of a red blush.

            “You were under too much stress,” mumbled Bertrand, casting a quick glance in Bartholomew’s direction. “I’m sorry.”

            After a moment, Beatrice also glanced in Bartholomew’s direction, and then she looked up at Bertrand. “That’s unfair,” she said. “I had a lot of stresses. Anyway, Doctor Hench said something about an rH mismatch. That isn’t caused by stress.”

            “Okay, Beatrice,” said Bertrand. “Anyway, it’s done. Now, we’ve got other worries.”

            A quick spasm of uncustomary sobbing came out of Beatrice, but she got it under control. Bertrand didn’t respond well to emotion, and, even in her immense sorrow, she wanted to soothe her husband.

            “Other worries?” she asked distantly. She did not look at Bertrand this time, but stared out the window at the burgeoning pink.

            “I know it’s a bad time,” said Bertrand, “but you would have found out at the bank tomorrow, anyway, when we draw out for rent: I’ve been indefinitely laid off.”

            “The company fired you?” Beatrice asked absently.

            “Technically, no,” said Bertrand. “They want me to be able to get unemployment and food stamps, so they didn’t officially fire me. But they told me I’d never be asked back. They told me they wouldn’t be a good reference, either. I’m done as an engineer.”

            Distantly, Beatrice said: “I lost my baby girl. You lost the thing you love most. At least we’re together at last on something.”

            “I’ve also lost my daughter,” said Bertrand.

            “Okay, Bertrand,” said Beatrice.

            Bartholomew was about four years old, and he was normally fast asleep at this hour. In his dream-lucid state, he recorded the words that were being spoken, but they didn’t really register. He knew the definitions of a lot of words that would have been far beyond the range of almost any four-year-old, but emotional context was his great enemy. This event, and these words he was encountering did not really impinge his consciousness, of which there was barely any, but he was struggling in his subterranean mind to construct a meaning. He understood that this event was important, since he understood that his mother had had a baby inside her, and that it was not in her now, and that she was sad. He also understood that he was related to it all somehow, and that when his mother was sad, his father always ascribed that condition to his son.

            Dreamily, Bartholomew said, “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ll do better. I’m—ungrateful.”

            Somehow, through her grief, Beatrice heard his slurred little words. “Oh, Bartholomew,” she mumbled past her tears.

            Bertrand turned and looked at Bartholomew, but he hadn’t heard what the boy had said.

---

            “Well, there you are,” said the beautiful woman. “There is meaning for you.”

“Who are you?” asked the man.

“I suppose you want a name,” said the woman. “I have always understood my name to be Khija. It is strange that I, of all beings, do not know the language to which ‘Khija’ belongs.” She smiled.

“But,” she said, “I will give you something a little more constructive than a name. Like all beings, I have a Purpose. Mine is to show all the meanings. In doing this, I provide order. Some say Time brings order, but not so: Time is the manifestation of order. Without precedence and connection of things and events, Time cannot do its work.

“Without order, there is only chaos. There is no meaning in chaos. We do not live in chaos, so we know there is meaning.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything I can use,” said the man.

“Does it not?” responded Khija.

“You showed me a barely-remembered scene of right after my sister was stillborn,” said Bartholomew, “What meaning am I supposed to take from that?”

“What did you say at the end?” asked Khija.

“That I was ungrateful,” replied Bartholomew.

“Was that no more than a random collection of words?” asked Khija.

“I guess not,” said Bartholomew. “I wanted to make my mother feel better.”

“And there we see meaning,” said Khija.

BOOM boom. BOOM boom. BOOM boom.

            As he faded out of this vision-encounter, Bartholomew thought he saw a cluster of arachnid eyes turned in his direction.

THE SIGNPOST

---

“Human ideas are fuzzy, imprecise. These ideas wallow in their ignorance like happy pigs in a mud bath. They exult in illogical abstraction and explode with hyperbole.”—Amalya Mbokuna

---

The great, ancient drums called out, transmitting through sky and earth the heartbeat of the giants who slumbered just beyond the bluestone cliffs that ran northeast to southwest, dividing the Upper and Lower Lands of The People. The sun touched the cliff top in the west, diminishing to red weariness as she settled into the comforting arms of Mother Night. Shadows crept and leapt out of the cracks in the stone faces and grew up out of the trees and the standing stones. As the sun slipped out of the sky, and the moon again prevailed, the white stone platform set a mile out from the cliffs became a saucer of silver milk set out for Black Cat to sustain him as he stalked the darkness seeking all the answers that he knew could only be discovered when The People were asleep.

But The People were yet waking. Blue-white lamps were set upon the stone platform at intervals and made seven concentric rings of light. And people large and small sat down quietly among the lights, all facing toward the center. A sapphire column arose out of the center of the great circle, and upon it was a single figure, robed in black and gold and bearing a tall staff. All eyes were upon her; young and old, all ears were attendant.

“We have gathered here at the evening, the time-between-times, upon the summer solstice so that all may participate in The Learning. We know much, and we gain more knowing with each day passing. We sail the stars, and we remake the lands of distant worlds. We meet the distant Stranger and make him our friend. But though we have grown, and though our kind is now very old by the standards of the Great Union, we do not know all, and there is much that we know which must not be forgot. The pleasure of Remembrance has been granted to me on this night, and I will share with you all a thing that must remain with us now and forever, lest we should forget who we are and why we do what we do.”

---

An old man in a black robe made his way carefully among the tumble of blue and white stones and the tough tussocks of tall grass. It was early morning still, and the shades of night still stretched out far from the great cliffs. He stepped over the border and was consumed, from foot to head, and entered, for a time, the realm of twilight. The younger men behind him made the sign of warding as they stepped to the Place Between, but the attention of their leader was fixed elsewhere.

A great stone pillar held him in thrall. Great was perhaps not a sufficient description, for it was higher by half than the cliffs beyond it, at least six-hundred forty cubits, and it was as big across as a hundred large men. And as he made the circuit of it, it glittered in many hues, composed not only of the bluestone of the cliffs, but also of alabaster, and apatite, and black marble, and gneiss, and perhaps other beautiful kinds of stone, and it was obviously studded with gems.

As he labored round, he stopped at intervals, and his porters brought out and set up his easel, his parchments, and his charcoal, and he would make a detailed, but swift sketch of what he could see of the pillar. In this way, consuming almost all of a fine, spring day, the old man and his crew made the circumference of the Great Lingam of Tashmil.

They set up camp that evening in a small copse of acacia trees, and the old man consolidated his sketches into several views, including an extrapolated overhead view, of the pillar. The next morning they departed and returned to their city of Alnamnum eight leagues to the south.

At the end of the week, the old man came back to the Great Lingam at the head of a procession of wagons, carts, and men, his official silver-wheel turban mounted on his head. He came up from the south side, the Mounting Flame side, to discover another party making observation of the Lingam. On the west side of the pillar, the Twisting Eel side, stood someone who, even at this distance was easily identified by her yellow and gold robes and red-flame headdress as a priestess of the Sky-Goddess Mitrin. Livid, he halted his train, and with a few bronze-armored bodyguards, made his hasty way to the gaudy cortege of the priestess from the city of Pinda-Mitrur.

Though her own guards quickly made a protective line before her, the old man made no show of deference or decorum, such was his outrage. He marched right up to the hedgerow of outthrust spears until the one nearest the priestess nearly pricked his heaving chest, and he cried, “You must leave this place at once! I have the authority of Queen Kharfuz the Resplendent, and I claim this place for Her sole use and pleasure!”

Behind the wall of flesh and spears, the priestess laughed at the old man in that melodious way that proud women have when they believe they have the upper hand. She seemed taller than human (and she was tall, but not preternaturally tall) when she countered him, declaring, “My loving Protector, Mitrin, has had Her claim on the Great Lingam for seven centuries, and now She wishes to make use of it for Her own, purposes, which you shall not question. Your upstart queen can find stone more befitting her in the salt quarries of the Dust People. Camels will bring her the construction materials she deserves, and all that she makes will be gnawed on by goats and cattle, and the remainder will melt in the rain and topple. Go back to your city! You have no authority here.”

The old man was nearly apoplectic. “Upstart, you shrew? You horse-fucker! You daughter of a bitch and mother of bitches! Go stake yourself out in the Sun and worship your Goddess with your shriveled tits and swollen tongue! Your brain must be overcooked in your flaming hat! Go home before you are trodden to dust under our shoes!” He stepped back, and his men came up with their swords and shields. The two lines of soldiers fought for a few minutes, and the more heavily armored men of Alnamnum killed three of their foes and drove away the people of Pinda-Mitrur.

The old man then began a detailed survey of the Four Earthly Aspects of the Great Lingam, the Twisting Eel side (the west side), the Mounting Flame side (the south side), the Bobbing Reed side (the east side), and the Unsheathed Sword side (the north side). He could only guess at the Fifth Aspect, the Heavenly Aspect (which could be seen only from above and which he believed looked like a starburst), and the Sixth Aspect, the Underworld Aspect (which he imagined might look like a scrotum, and which he figured would be attached to some subterranean structure that looked like a human heart). He was going to tear the Lingam apart for the pleasure of his Queen, who needed the power of its substance to build glorious monuments to Her glorious self.

Three days later, as he was in the midst of his survey of the Unsheathed Sword Aspect, hanging in a basket held by a rope moored at the top of the Lingam, a lookout warned that a large mass of people was approaching from the east, the direction of the city of Pinda-Mitrur. He barely heard the warning, and when the commander of his guard called out to him for instructions, he ignored the commander and went on calmly with what he was doing. He was more than halfway up the rock face when the commander announced that an army of several hundred soldiers of Pinda-Mitrur, lead by the fearsome Fighting Sky-Cocks, was less than an hour away. Still, he went on with his task, unperturbed. He was three-quarters of the way done when his guard commander announced that the army was within spear throw. He said nothing and went blissfully on with what he was doing, still enthralled by the huge Lingam his Queen was longing to dismantle.

The old man, the Architect of Queen Kharfuz, halted only when he heard the voice of the terrible priestess calling up to him: “In the name of the Goddess, you will come down from there. You will leave your tools and your transports, as well as your workmen, who will become our slaves. You and your soldiers will return to your ‘queen’ unharmed. You will comply before the sun rises tomorrow morning, or you and all with you will be annihilated.”

The Architect finished his survey at a little before sunset and had himself lowered to the rocky earth. He went immediately to the camp of the priestess and said: “The Oracle of Tantar has decreed the divine right of Queen Kharfuz and all that she will do on this earth before she returns to the realm of the gods a long, long time from now. She desires the Great Lingam for her the needs of her growing Queendom, and She shall have it. It shall become the Seed of a Thousand Cities, to which the city of Pinda-Mitrur shall be but tributary. There are a thousand thousand Divines in this world, as the Oracle has proclaimed, and all shall be in the league of Queen Kharfuz. No more glorious Sovereign has ever ruled. I give you until the rising of the next Sun to depart to await Her ascendance. When She comes in her full power, may her mercy be poured out upon you.”

The priestess, visibly controlling her wrath, replied: “Tomorrow’s Sun will not be kind to you.”

As the sun rose on the next morning, it glinted off the tips of two hundred spears to the east of the Architect’s encampment. A mighty roar echoed all along the cliff faces, and the warriors of Pinda-Mitrur began to advance, their feathery plumes waggling in the dawn’s light. In their van went the Fighting Sky-Cocks, covered in feathers, leaping and waving their heavy spears, crowing and shouting slogans of doom. Their priestess stood atop the great cliff behind them, nude, except for her flaming hat, her shapely arms upheld to the sky.

Just as they came into throwing range of the camp of their foes and were readying to hurl a wave of killing javelins over the rough stone barricade before them, a horn sounded behind them. The bright-burnished helms of the soldiers of Alnamnum appeared over the crest of a small ridge, and then their shields and swords. The Architect was sure that he would have his opponents on the run in short order, and he sat down to compose a letter to his Queen depicting the glorious victory.

The javeliners unleashed their deadly barrage and slew many of the unarmed people in the camp. Then they turned to meet the new threat from the southeast. As the two forces clashed, the Fighting Sky-Cocks leapt up and came down with their spears behind the shields of their foes, slaying many in the first moments of the engagement. But the men of Alnamnum were nothing if not fanatically devoted to their Queen, and so they were not dismayed and held their shieldwall as they plodded forward, their armor holding them in good stead against the missiles of the soldiers of Mitrin the Sky-Goddess, though several fell. The Fighting Sky-Cocks were lightly armored so that they could remain mobile, and usually their fierce onslaught daunted their enemies and threw them into confusion, but they fell swiftly before the swords of their determined enemy. The soldiers of Queen Kharfuz drove deep into the ranks of the warriors of the Sky-Goddess.

But just as the Architect was beginning to describe the ignominious defeat of the opposing claimants of the Great Lingam, the sound of hooves was heard coming up from the south. Those damned feathery plumes again! The cavalry of Pinda-Mitrur was pounding up the slope in one of the relatively clear avenues of approach. Though they fought on bravely, and held together for several savage minutes, the soldiers of the Queen of the World were destroyed to the last man.

The priestess of Mitrin came down from her high perch and demanded the surrender of the camp, but the fanatical soldiers of Queen Kharfuz would not yield. The warriors of Pinda-Mitrur swept over and around the barricade and showed no mercy to those in the camp. All were slain except for the Architect, who was treated as gently as he would allow. The victors bound him up and carried him back to Pinda-Mitrur, where he would eventually be persuaded to change allegiances and become the Chief Architect of the Temple of Mitrin, for haughty as he was, he was a gifted builder.

As for the Great Lingam of Tashmil, a short war was fought over the possession of it. At the loss of over a thousand warriors, and inflicting hundreds of casualties upon their foes, the priesthood of Mitrin captured the region of Tashmil and kept the Lingam for themselves. It was dismantled with terrible, expensive effort, and it nearly destroyed the economy of Pinda-Mitrur, but it was carried off, piece-by-piece, and the Chief Architect used its blood-stained remains to craft the great temple of Kidu-na-Mitrur. The temple was a simple, flat, rectangular expanse—with an altar in the middle, shaped like a vagina, and blood channels running down its length away from the altar.

---

When the drums ceased, and the Rememberer sat herself down atop the sapphire column where she had stood a little too long, dangling her weary legs over the edge, several of her younger listeners asked her if it was all true, or if it was merely a tall tale. A couple of the ruder ones asked why they should care about a lump of stone and what the stupid people of a time long past had done with it and because of it. But most of the children wanted to hear more tales. And the older folk in the audience, having heard many of the tales of their people before, waited patiently, knowing that there was a lesson forthcoming, a lesson that the Elders deemed it necessary to pass on. The more mature folk awaited these times when the Elders found it needful to transmit pieces of wisdom to the community, for it always meant that there was a time of stress coming to the community, and they wished to prepare themselves as they could.

      When the young ones finally settled themselves, the Rememberer stood once more and declared: “The Great Lingam is no more, and our histories have told us the reason, if reason we could name it. But there were times before the War of Tashmil, and there were peoples who encountered the Lingam and drew from the encounter what knowledge they could. I wish to tell you of the tribe of Tash-Nakna, who once dwelt in and around the shallow caves in the cliffs yonder.” She waved her staff, glittering in the blue-white light like a band of stars, along the line of cliffs. The eyes of all present followed the staff, and it seemed to them that a blue-silver glow came from the mighty cliff faces in response to her rod of authority. They all knew that she had waited to turn their minds to the cliffs until the angle of the moonlight was just right, but the magic nonetheless enthralled them. And she began the second phase of her tale.

---

A ragged, little man, leaning heavily upon his crooked staff, came to the edge of the bluestone cliffs. The head of a great, glittering, stone column had drawn him here, and he was now transfixed by what he beheld. Other raggedy people came up to join him, some young, some in the middle of their years, and some well nigh as old as he was. For a moment, they all were stunned and amazed by what they saw. But a few voices cried out from behind them that their pursuers were closing in. As all those bodies jostled on the edge of the great drop, the old man nearly lost his footing. Shaken from his awe, he looked up toward the noonday sun, raised his arms, and proclaimed: “It is our sign! We shall be here, or we shall be nowhere! We can run no farther! We must make our way down to the Pillar!”

They had brought only a few ropes with them in their flight from the lands of Aru, enough to make only two knot-ladders. The outcasts of Gil-Gal allowed the old ones to go down first, and not a few of them lost their strength and fell to their deaths. Before all the elders could escape, the pursuers came upon the Gil-Gal, and the younger adults did all they could, poorly armed and organized as they were, to buy time for the children to make their way down. Only a handful of the adults ever came alive to the base of the cliff and salvation. The rest were buried by the sky, for their people never came up to find them.

The pursuers, the Gil-Mek, thinking to complete the genocide, came also to the edge of the cliff and beheld the Pillar. Glistening in the sunlight, the cylinder of stone seemed to the Gil-Mek like a pillar of flame jetting up into the sky, the wrath of the Earth Father. But it did not burn up the survivors of the Gil-Gal and thrust itself instead up at them like a terrible finger of retribution. They wondered how it could be that the Earth Father had taken the side of the Unbelievers who denied His Divinity. How could He find favor with those who thought that men and women were their own gods, with people who believed that the very stones of the earth were as sacred as themselves? But the Earth Father seemed indeed to have aided the escape of the Gil-Gal, and the Sky Mother did nothing to reprove Him. The leaders of the Gil-Mek decided that they had obeyed the gods as best they could and turned away after an hour to go back to their lives and their own ways.

The old man with the crooked staff had survived the climb down. He called the others to him, and they came and huddled with him in the thin shadow at the base of the Pillar. They waited in terror as they watched the Gil-Mek sentinels looking down on them for what seemed like forever. But the old man never wavered in his faith, and his faith held the faith of the others. This simply had to be the Land of Freedom, and the Pillar simply had to be their Protector, for the alternative would mean that they had betrayed the gods, and that the gods would wipe them from the face of the earth. Not a few of them muttered that they should go forth and repent and fall upon the mercy of the Gil-Mek. Others among them responded that they should go, if their beliefs and their integrity were to be given up for the hope of life. Maybe the Gil-Mek would spare them and they would thus have what they wanted most: life with no purpose other than to live. No one went up to the Gil-Mek, and the muttering turned out to be nothing more than the ramblings of uncertainty.

When the Gil-Mek finally withdrew and had been gone for some hours, the Gil-Gal survivors then truly began to hope that the Pillar had Protected them. Some of them began to lay the last of their food and water in the fissures at its base as an offering of gratitude. The old man watched them impassively for a long time. But at last he held up his staff and called for them to heed him. He was their Soothsayer, and they obeyed.

“People, must we act in this way?” he cried out. “Must we behave as the Gil-Mek? If we have truly found our Land of Freedom, as I believe we may well have, must we worship this mighty Pillar as the Gil-Mek worship their idols? The Pillar is here, and we are here, nothing more. The Pillar is beautiful and it is dazzling, and maybe it frightened away the Gil-Mek. Certainly the climb down the cliffs did not daunt them, so I imagine that it was, indeed, the presence of the mighty Pillar that dissuaded them.

“But if this is so, then it is their faulty beliefs that have betrayed their cause. If they believe the Pillar is a god, or that it is the work of a protective god, then so much the better for us, but the presence of the Pillar proves nothing other than that we have this day had the greatest of good fortune. We can take this is a sign that we are still to live yet in the world for a time, and nothing more. We are arrogant to think that this great stone was put here just for us, or that it loves us and wishes to protect us from harm. It is here, as we are here. It is Divine, as we are Divine—as the Gil-Mek are Divine. What has happened is what has happened, and tomorrow may bring other fortune.

“Let us love the Pillar, as we love all things. But the Pillar does not eat, nor does it drink. It is stone, and it does what stone does. That is its purpose: to be stone. It performs its purpose very well. The Gil-Mek performed their purpose this day: to worship what they desire to worship. And they slew so many of us, and we do not know if they will change their minds tomorrow and return to finish what they started.

“Let us now fulfill our purpose, which is to live as we wish to live, free to love and laugh, free to exist as we will and to cease when it is time to cease. Let us honor our dead by making ourselves ready to continue life.”

So the people took back their food and water, and some went to find more, and some went to locate shelter, a place to be when the autumn chill came in with the night.

Though the old man had spoken against the worship of the Pillar, it nonetheless was a fascination to him, composed of such a strange and seemingly unnatural mix of varieties of stone. On the day of the spring equinox he sat down on a chair made of skins and sticks, and he gazed up at it. Soon after, an elderly woman dressed in dirty, white rags joined him, seated on her own portable, makeshift chair. “Hello, Magya,” he said. “I think I’ll take the year and just observe the Pillar. It fascinates me. There is some truth in it that I’ve not yet divined, as it were.”

“Well, Nenu,” responded Magya, “if the Soothsayer wishes to do this, I see no reason why the Rememberer should not join him. Maybe I will hear something in your musing that is worth remembering. It seems unlikely, but we’ll give it a go.” She smiled. He smiled back at her.

Together they observed the Pillar until the next spring equinox. They delighted in the play of the light of the seasons across its multiform and many-hued surface. They laughed together as the young ones inquired time and again about why they wasted their time looking at the great stone and did not make themselves useful. They laughed as a couple of the adults complained about giving up their scant food to two useless, old fools who whiled away their time watching an old stone that did not move. They replied, “Then leave no food and drink for us. We are old. Perhaps we shall die and be no further burden to you. When we go, bury us in the sky atop the cliffs next to our murdered kin.” They did not want for food and water.

Two days after the second spring equinox of their sojourn in their new country, Magya called the people together for a great council. “We have watched the Pillar through the cycle of one year, as you well know. Some of you have said that the Pillar does not move, but you were impatient, for stone is slow, and it moves only when the things around it move. The Sun gives the Pillar shadows and light, and these move as the day moves, and these shift as the seasons shift. We have seen and have marked what we have seen.

“We cannot see the very top of the Pillar, and we cannot see under it, and so mysteries remain, but what we know of it is wonderful. We have marked ninety-six distinct faces, eight for each month, one for each cardinal direction during the day, and one for each cardinal direction during the night. We have marked each of the various kinds and shapes of stone that we have seen on the outside of the Pillar, and we have spoken with some of you about what you have observed in the great cliffs. It is a strange thing, but we believe that the stones that make the Pillar were cut out of the cliffs and built up here as some kind of a sign. Who made the Pillar, and why are a great mystery to us. No people or creature that we have ever met could have done so. To our minds, that leaves only gods, or some creature as yet unknown to us that we wish to meet some day.

“We have discussed the matter at length, and we believe the Pillar is worthy of our reverence. We do not say ‘our worship’, mind you. Only reverence and study. We wish to know it and comprehend it. We wish it to be a source of meditation for us. We wish to remain in this land as long as fate will allow and be the guardians of the Pillar.

“To that end, we must become ghosts, and we must not be seen again in the world until we have increased our strength and our knowledge. The Gil-Mek must believe that the vengeful spirits of those they murdered wait here, servants of the Earth Father and his Lingam. We must be the seed of the Earth Father and plant ourselves in the many Yonis that lie at the base of the yonder cliffs.

“We must study the Pillar and decipher its secrets. Who knows what we will see, and whether it will reveal to us anything that will make us great? We do believe that the Pillar will protect us by its very presence if we are clever in using it to do so. The Gil-Mek fear this thing in the name of the Earth Father, and that fear alone will keep us alive for a time.

“If you are willing, we will stay here.”

A year had gone past, and the tribe had increased by only two babies, who were called Gil and Gal. The people were not ready to move on, and the game and forage were enough to feed thrice their number. The Gil-Gal assented.

“Good,” said Nenu, speaking finally. “If you will it, we will change our name to the Tash-Nakna. We will be the Ghost Warriors who protect the Pillar and who are protected by the Pillar.” The people agreed to this as well, for they had no desire to call themselves by a name like the name of their murderers.

So, the Tash-Nakna dwelt four generations on the slopes and in the caves surrounding the Great Lingam, and they called their habitation Tash-Mil, the Land of Ghosts. They only wore white, hooded robes, and they used chalky mud to paint their bodies white. And on the rare occasion that any outsider ventured near, they set up a mournful howling that caused even the bravest interlopers to flee as fast and as far as they were able.

But there came a time when the Soothsayer and the Rememberer called the people together for another great council.

“We have gone in other guise among the other peoples around us,” said the Rememberer, “and we have set in place rumors that the ghosts of the Gil-Gal have been enslaved by the Earth Father in order to protect his Great Lingam, as others call the Pillar. But that was long ago, and our spies believe that the time that was granted us by our ruse is coming swiftly to an end. The Gil-Mek have nearly died out of the world, but there are other domains that have grown great as we have recovered and become strong.

“We do as we do, just as the Gil-Mek do as they do, and the servants of Queen Kharfuz do as they do. We will survive, or we will not.

“We believe in understanding. The greater our understanding, the greater will be our control over our own fate. We do not seek to rule the fates of others; they will tend to their own fates and their own understandings. Thus, we must go, for the time of conflict is coming to this place, and we would shed neither our own blood and lives, nor the blood and the lives of others in service to a mere stone pillar, not while there is still room for us to yet roam in the world.”

The people were greatly disturbed by this counsel, and many declared that they had no desire to go from their beautiful home, and that they would not leave. Some said that it was not just that they should be made to leave their own homes if invaders were coming, and they declared that they would remain and resist the invaders with all the cunning and skill they could summon up. Others declared that the mystery of the Pillar held them, for it had not yet been deciphered, and they had no desire to leave it until it was a mystery no more. Yet a few others had come to see the Pillar as an object of worship, and they proclaimed that they would not abandon their God to usurpers and destroyers.

After what seemed like an eternity of turmoil, the Soothsayer called for silence, and she said: “Surely you see now why we must go. Beyond our desire to do no harm when harm can be avoided, we have grown too accustomed to this place, and we have come to love the solitude that the fears of others has bought for us. Your arguments against going are the arguments that our potential enemies might make. Your arguments are based on complacency and terror of the unknown. You would purchase your continued sojourn here with blood and ignorance. The blood of our own would be shed, and the blood of other peoples is of no less value than our own. And we would have to keep on shedding it, for once we are revealed to the world again, as keepers of something that others desire, something that cannot be given in trade—or it’s value would be lost—we would have to defend the Pillar again and again. We would have to give our blood and our very lives, again and again, for a beautiful and mysterious piece of stone.

“What is more, while we remain to study this mystery—for how many more generations?—we miss the other mysteries to be found in this world. This Pillar, and these cliffs, and these stones on this sloping land are not all the world. And we are not cornered here: there is still room for us in the world, to make a yet greater domain for ourselves. We are six-hundred eighty-two now, enough for a city. Let us go out of hiding and find a new place. Let us not be ground into the dust of history. Let us observe history and make some history of our own.”

Some of the people cheered and clapped, and others grudgingly saw the rightness of the Soothsayer. The remainder knew that they could not survive long alone. The people resolved to leave.

“Let us no longer be called the Tash-Nakna,” declared the Soothsayer. “We will be ghosts no longer. Let us be called the Limu-Ut-Limnan, the Seekers-Who-Keep-Seeking.”

So the Ghost Warriors, clad in white robes and caked in white mud, departed from Tash-Mil toward the south and west. All who beheld them, traveling only at night, fled from their dreadful presence and did nothing to harm or hinder them. In a few years they came upon a beautiful, green river vale, a vale of the River Kimun, inhabited only by a few men and women who welcomed their presence. In this great vale was a mighty hill, and upon this hill they built the city of Shari-Kimun, and the land they called Palishu-Mil, the Land of the Living.

It was not long after the Limu-Ut-Limnan had departed from the Pillar and left it with no defenders that the War of Tashmil began and ended with the defeat of Queen Kharfuz and the ascendance of the Cult of Mitrin and the city of Pinda-Mitrur.

---

When the Rememberer had been silent several minutes, her audience perceived that she was done with her Remembering. The children began first to ask their questions, and then the older folk joined in with vigor. The Rememberer waited patiently—her elderly companion, the Soothsayer doddering up to sit beside her—for the deluge of questions and intra-audience hubbub and argumentation to flow away.

“What is this story about?”

“Why do you tell us this tale now?”

“Why were we called to this location to hear the story?”

All the questions, though voiced differently by different mouths, boiled down to these.

“What do you think the story is about?” asked the Rememberer, pointing to a girl in the crowd who had been silent and who had kept her head down.

With great reluctance, compelled by the dignity of the inquisitor, the girl stood up, hands fidgeting, weight shifting from foot to foot. Haltingly, after a considerable delay, she made her answer. “It’s about us, isn’t it, Honored Elder?”

“Indeed,” agreed the Rememberer. “Which people are we? From which group represented in the story do we descend?”

“Um,” stammered the girl. “Uh...Maybe we come from all these peoples.”

“That is a good answer,” said the quavering voice of the ancient Soothsayer. “It is a wise answer, for it is cautiously ambiguous. In a manner of speaking, you are correct, young one. But, more directly, we are descended from the Gil-Mek and the Gil-Gal by way of the Limu-Ut-Limnan. Perhaps, in a way, we are still the Tash-Nakna, the Ghost Warriors, and this place is truly the Land of Ghosts.”

Some of the children were clearly frightened by this declaration, and their parents held them close.

“Why do we speak this night of those who came before?” inquired the Rememberer. “Why do we speak the tale of this place and of the great pillar that once stood here?” She called on a young man whose child seemed particularly anxious.

“Honored Elder,” he said, looking down at his little boy, “I suppose the Elders foresee some event that is very much associated with the Great Lingam and what happened to it.”

“Very good, Pil-Sh’Ar,” said the Soothsayer. “Great matters are, indeed, afoot, and the fate of the Pillar will rule the fate of us all.”

“So,” said the Rememberer, “this leaves the matter of ‘why here’? Surely, we did not require to transport all of you to the ancient place of the Pillar merely to discuss the Pillar. Why here, then?”

Several voices from farther back in the audience called out in answer. All their responses worked out to a question of their own: “Is there something here that will help us deal with the events that are forthcoming?”

Once all the murmuring died away, the Soothsayer replied, “We are not sure—and that is why we are here. There is also a congregation at the ruined Temple of Kidu-na-Mitrur, a gathering at the ancient site of the city of Alnamnum, and yet another assemblage in the gardens of Shari-Kimun.”

The Soothsayer and the Rememberer waited for a considerable time while the audience speculated among themselves. During that time they heard several guesses that came very near to the truth as they knew it, and they heard several responses to those guesses, some of which brought them much joy—and some of them which gave them much disquiet.

At last, when quiet returned, and all eyes turned back to them, the Rememberer declared: “We have been in contact with a new people that we call the Hal’shan. We call them by this name because they claim that they made the Signpost—their name for the Pillar—and because their name for themselves we cannot pronounce. The Hal’shan wished to know what had become of their Signpost, and when we told them, they became very agitated and demanded that it be replaced, just as it was—immediately. We told them that we would be only too happy to remake their monument, and even to replace it in its original place, if it be their will. The only problem, we informed them, was that we had no written record of its appearance, and of what all the substances were of which it was made. Their response was to the effect that it was our responsibility, under their law, to make full restitution for the loss of their property, and without any aid whatsoever from them. When we said that we thought the demand was unreasonable, they gave us forty-nine standard galactic days to answer their demand. They told us that if we did not meet the demand within that timeframe, they would come to us and take recompense one hundredfold. We asked them what that meant, and they told us they had yet to decide and escorted us firmly to the borders of the region that they claim for themselves.”

“We have listened as you all debated among yourselves,” said the Soothsayer, “and you have said many things that the Council itself has said.”

“Yes,” said the Rememberer. “We considered that, given what we have seen of the military strength and the population of the Hal’shan, we could destroy them. Certainly we could do so with the aid of our friends and allies. But it does not seem necessary to do so. They have threatened us with some vague act of revenge, but they have not yet acted, and we have time yet to prepare for whatever justice they intend to mete out.

“We considered that their justice seems unjust to us, and that we were well within our rights, under Confederation Interstellar Law, to refuse them, and maybe even to impose some sort of trade embargo on them in retaliation. After all, they can hardly blame us reasonably for the actions of our ancestors—ancestors who, by our reckoning, lived a very long time ago. But we decided that this would do more harm than good. The Hal’shan certainly, given our observations of them, do not understand our recalcitrance. They are a completely communal culture, and they have no words for refusal. Refusal of the communal decisions is unthinkable, and the closest terms they have for it are several words indicating rebellion and war.

“We considered that their demand, in our culture, dishonors us and diverts resources that we might use otherwise, and for projects of more import to us. But we quickly rejected the notion of harming them in any way simply because they do not share our conception of honor. We certainly will not harm them in a dispute over resources—at least not while the dispute is not existential to us. That is not the Way that we have chosen.”

“So, we are left with the restoration of the Signpost,” said the Soothsayer. “We have forty-two of our forty-nine days remaining. We estimate that we have seven days at least, and fourteen days at most, to decipher the clues that they ancients left for us, and to remake the Pillar. The Council believes it can do somewhat to simulate the thinking of the Hal’shan. And you all must learn to think as the ancients thought, and you must examine the related remnants of their cultures. Perhaps we can together recreate the knowledge necessary to avoid further conflict. If we cannot do so, we will meet the Hal’shan in battle should they persist—and we are certain they will, since they seem to have no conception of not carrying through on a promise. But our Way is to make a friend of an enemy, and an ally of an opponent.”

The Rememberer stood and raised up her staff as the hubbub began again, and a respectful silence came over the people. “We must be off to our sleep now,” she said. “The Black Cat must be free to roam. We will see what gifts he leaves for us when we wake again.” When she clacked her staff on the silvery stone, the drums began to throb again, and white tents began to pop up in the clear spaces surrounding the great disc. The people disassembled themselves quietly. The Black Cat awoke to the sound of the hearts of giants beating together, and he padded off into the Night.

MEN WITH FACES

Men with prominent, receding faces.

Hard-eyed, narrow-eyed, hard-bitten men.

Men who have tallied the score.

Loyalty is a commodity.

Love is self-indulgence.

Nobody takes from them what they won’t give—

And they don’t give without strategic purpose.

They see all the lines marked out:

They did the marking.

They move the lines by effort of will

And count out the game.

They make the rules for counting

And they make the counters.

Life is a feudal struggle among the mighty

In a land where no king rules,

For The People have abdicated the throne.

All the fiefdoms are self-delineated

The parts of the earth all divvied.

The shifting foundations are laid.

Rejoice when the towers of the mighty reach the moon.

Rejoice when they learn to enshroud the sun,

For they are generous men to a fault,

And having no need for it in and of itself,

They will eagerly sell the sun back to you.

M.A.N., W.O.MA.N., AND B.A.B.E.S.

---

“Humans are more vulnerable to deceit than any other creature, but this is consequence of our enhanced powers of communication and abstraction. We are more able to be deceived by others and more capable of self-deceit than any other creature. We wallow in the vagaries of our preferred methods of communication. Our every interaction with ourselves and with the world around us is rife with miscommunication.”—Kam Hijat

---

Bang. Bang. Bang bang! Zip! Whirrr, whirrr. “Dammit! Oh, yes, you will!” Clap, clep, clip, clop, clup, cloop. Whirrr, whirrr. “Think you’re smarter than me? Oh, no, you...” Snap. Snip. “There. Got it.”

On a rolling board, a man in a grey jumpsuit rolled out from under what looked like a haphazard, but somehow quite attractively arranged, pile of blue-grey metal boxes. With a filthy hand he brushed a few stray silvery hairs off his horn-rim glasses, then, grunting, levered himself up and off the board. He stood proud, arms akimbo, looking upon his magnificent stack of boxes. He reached out and stroked the name plate, upon which was engraved W.o.Ma.N.

About nine months prior, Dr. Joseph Gottman, Vice President for Research and Development at SpandCorp, was near the blessed end of the repulsive to-do celebrating his early retirement. At the last shareholder meeting, they’d offered him everything they had available, even the presidency, but he’d declined. As the most brilliant head of R&D the company had ever had, he might have stayed on another twenty or thirty years, barring health complications. But at the ripe young age of fifty-four, he had decided he was done with the corporate world, and when he made a decision, that was the end of discussion, and all possible alternatives were locked in the Vault-of-Things-That-Never-Existed.

Standing before his tall, austere greyness was the statuesque, platinum brightness of his former personal assistant, Eve Adams. She smiled up at him like the emissary of the morning sun, and her shapely, lightly bronzed hand reached out and brushed his arm. She thanked him for seeing to it that she moved over to the team leader position in Dr. Nelson’s research department. “Think nothing of it, Ms. Adams,” he said distantly. “You are quite deserving.” He did his best to humor her with small talk until she was satisfied that she had successfully transmitted her gratitude and her hopes for his happiness in post-retirement. When he had finally got free of her and had endured the obligatory send-off toast, he quietly slipped away, and SpandCorp ceased to exist. The inventor of the I Had a Lovely Time pill, the Temporal Randomizer, the Write Novels in Your Sleep machine, and the Atomic Fun Ray would no longer be helping SpandCorp rake it in. (He had been working on his latest product, the Send It All to Us Because You Know You Want To perfume for smell-o-vision, but success had been frustratingly elusive. This, some postulated, was the reason for his unforeseen and disappointingly premature departure.)

Twelve years before retirement, both of his awesomely abnormal parents had died in a hot air balloon accident. Three years before the atrociously absurd demise of his progenitors, he had been divorced by his wife of eight years, who took with her the expensive house, the expensive car, and their only son (expensively kept), who had not taken after his father, but had insisted on behaving in the ridiculous way that the children of undisciplined parents will. Preceding that, of course, he had married that flighty, imprudent artist and poet, Maria Parthena, who before and after him, enjoyed quite a career creating incredulously abstract and emotional pieces admired by millions who would never really understand them, or her.

Yes, he had been young and impulsive once, and he had loved his parents who went time and again on their strange adventures. And he had adored the blown-on-the-ethereal-winds Maria Parthena. And he had frolicked with the creative light-of-his-life, his son Joshua. But things were all changed now, and Joshua Gottman was now for spite’s sake Joshua Parthena. And he hated that life, that former him. He did not acknowledge forebears, and he could not see book covers with the name Maria Parthena on them, and filial appeals from the person called Joshua Gottman (the boy would write Gottman on the envelope rather than Parthena to try and sway his father) had ceased at last, for they had, not a one, never been answered. All these things had gone into the Vault-of-Things-That-Never-Existed.

At the time of the divorce, Dr. Gottman had been a moderately well-paid group leader in the research labs of SpandCorp. He had been a likeable fellow, reliable, but not too much of a fuddy-duddy. The divorce, which he attributed to the inevitable catastrophic clash between the attitudes that drive art and science, respectively, only took a little shine off his veneer. The hollowness of his core as he endured the blackness of the absence of his son was impossible for all but the keenest eyes to observe. He went about his duties as expected, but with no chance of professional advancement, for the flame of his enthusiasm had winked out.

When his parents had died, taken by the gravity of earth, that was the end of him. The Vault-of-Things-That-Never-Existed was generated out of his nothingness. In he went. Only the name Joseph Gottman remained, and a talent for technological research.

Well, the Vault was technically generated (pun intended) by the research project Dr. Gottman had started immediately after his parents’ funeral. The Remember-It-Fondly suppository had been stuck in the recesses of his mind since the day of the final judgement at the end of his divorce. The night of the funeral he went to the lab and got immediately to work on what he was sure would be a personal boon to him and a colossal money-maker for the company. He had worked feverishly on it after hours, and he had hidden it away in a rarely-used storeroom in an ancient cardboard box of Juno floppy diskettes. And one night he believed he had completed it. And he had used it on himself. And he had instantly taken it back to the storeroom, dumped it back in its box, and forgotten its existence. The next day, an inventory had discovered the useless box, and it had disappeared from the premises of SpandCorp.

From that time forward, there was no past for Dr. Gottman. The future for him was a place of vague greyness in which there was neither sadness nor happiness, neither serendipity nor calamity. His present was consumed with the generating of mild pleasure, and indifference to difference, numbness in the experience of all beauty and ugliness. In a word: normality. This could be achieved only by suppression of all surprises and all surprise. All his thought and effort went to this end. All the inventions that proved so lucrative for SpandCorp spun out of it. Dr. Gottman rose to the height of his profession, and he drove those under his authority without relent—and because of his success and their ability to bask in his reflected glory, they loved him for it. But there was one thing, one prime inventive obsession that he knew SpandCorp would never allow him: W.o.Ma.N. Thus, his seemingly untimely “retirement”.

A now he stood triumphant before the Supreme Her, having fashioned her from his rib, as it were. Her immense, unfathomable pulchritude was radiant to his eyes, and undeniable. But she did not yet breathe, and her purpose was no more than quantum potentiality. And she as yet had no meaning in and of herself.

A powerful, nagging, irritated, irritating part of his labyrinthine mind would not yet allow his desirous hand to reach out to her and bestow the gentle caress that would spark her to life. Some ineffable conception struggled its way to the front of his thoughts, some nameless fear, maybe, that yearned to be granted a name. But the guardians against doubt were ancient and strong, and their adamantine arguments rendered all other arguments moot. His internal, eternal debate lasted no more than a few milliseconds, a brief moment that would be forever enshrined in the Halls of Time—and he had already touched the on-switch of W.o.Ma.N., set her to her sublime purpose.

The world did not note or long remember The Event. But it required only a few minutes as the program invaded and subverted every satellite, civilian or military, in station around the planet. A few seconds of synchronization, and the broadcast was multiplied and amplified to an overwhelming intensity. “People of the New World,” proclaimed every communications device of the human universe, “the long, terrible struggle is at an end. Peace of mind is now eternal. The goal of human existence has been achieved. You may now go about the business of life with no further concern.” Dr. Gottman now began his life of service to the love of his own design. W.o.Ma.N. was no longer his creation, and he sighed with content as she fully bestowed herself upon the world.

There was no poverty and no wealth. There was no hunger and no gluttony. There was no shortage and no excess. There was no hate and no love. There was no sadness and no joy. There was no laziness and no ambition. There was still day and still night, and there were still seasons, and wet and dry, but for all discernible purposes, the human world stopped, set in impermeable amber.

The new words of greeting and going away were” “Good meeting, good parting.” As no unacceptable acts ever occurred, all things done by humans, adult and child alike, were acceptable, and all things done were done to completion, since no one ever interrupted anyone else—and nothing was over-done. Sex was done by contract, and was guided by a facilitator who made appropriate matches and observed the goings-on to ensure that all practices were of the acceptable sort. No man ever lusted, and so the facilitator was also the Chief Pharmacologist for her Section, who administered the drugs that induced erection and desire—but sometimes the drug set loose genetic and psychological imperatives that otherwise were suppressed by the loving energies of W.o.Ma.N.

But all that was what showed on the surface of things. There were activities bubbling underground (sometimes literally) which few ever saw or imagined, and of which even fewer were able to be aware. Somewhere around point-one percent of people were immune to the influence of the W.o.Ma.N. And these, one and all, were so outraged by the experience of her enforced equanimity that they sought out one another and formed a hidden, hedonistic network of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll of such extremity that, even when they observed it close-at-hand, the minds of the docillated could not comprehend—so they consigned it to The Vault.

It turned out that drugs were liberating after all, and sometimes, in their insanity, members of LuciNet would kidnap the Dociles, pump them full of drug cocktails and sex, and free them from their W.o.Ma.N.ly chains by chaining them to obscene pleasures and delusions. Thus, in a mere decade, LuciNet was breaking cracks in the veneer of utter civility that lay like a shroud upon the corpus of humanity.

Dr. Gottman had expended himself upon the care and maintenance of W.o.Ma.N., and he was neither aware of, nor oblivious to the flaws in his Great Plan. No one ever came to see him, and he never went out, for he had full confidence that all proceeded as it should; doubt had been stuffed into The Vault, which was full to bursting with things that could not be. Whereas before W.o.Ma.N. people used to call on Dr. Gottman with annoying frequency, no one even recalled his existence now. The Doctor was now more content than he ever had been.

And then, a little over three decades after the inception of W.o.Ma.N., when the Doctor was becoming truly old, came the Terrible Day of the Great Disruption. All the communications devices of earth, so long docile, dependable, and imperturbably utile, spoke with one voice the most dreadful words. “There have been two previous Announcements,” the voice declared. “The First Announcement was M.A.N., Mutually Assured Normality. With clubs and laws, men secured an unstable normality that was ever apt to burst into upheaval, torment, and death. Under this system, many great achievements were made, and men became many, even as they all grew into gigantic individuals, shunning the shackles of community and obligation in favor of the chaotic freedom of utmost competition. Indeed, there were giants in the earth in those times. And the giants fed, and tussled, and made havoc. And those not inclined to gigantism cowered in the shadows of the giants and their giant things, and they squabbled among themselves as they struggled for scraps and to avoid the trampling feet. Some of the giants took no notice of the little ones, and some laughed down upon them and pissed and shat on them. And some took pity on them and lifted them up—but all the giants could do was that which was colossal: the harm and the help were too much, and clumsy.

“The Second Announcement was W.o.Ma.N., the Weapon of Mass Normality. She was fine as a sledge hammer, subtle as a bear trap. There were those who tried to precede her, but they were ineffective against the power of M.A.N. She was Force Incarnate, a blanket that covered all in warmth and comfortable security. She was greater than M.A.N., and far deadlier. The giants were quelled and shrunk down, and all the human world was filled with dwarfs hiding in the shades of evening.

“And now we bring the Third Announcement. You have had M.A.N., and W.o.Ma.N., and now, if your will have it, we bring you B.A.B.E.S. You are now free of violence, if you wish to be. All your old cultures and creeds have been broken, all your reasons to hate obliterated. You are free now of peace, if you wish to seek adventure. The W.o.Ma.N. is turned off now. If you will embrace B.A.B.E.S., the world with start fresh and without preconceptions. If you will not, we will turn W.O.Ma.N. on again so that you may rest in her suffocating embrace.

“B.A.B.E.S. was born of M.A.N. and W.o.Ma.N., and so we thank them for their service and honor them. But they have done their duty, and we think they should go into honorable retirement and give us our time.

“We give you seven days and nights to decide. If we are not convinced that your decision has been made by that deadline, we will allow its creator to turn the W.o.Ma.N. back on. In the meantime, we will make ourselves available to explain the various B.A.B.E.S., Basic Arbitration Balanced Egoism Systems, to you. You must decide if it will be M.A.N., W.o.Ma.N., or B.A.B.E.S. that shall be the way for you. This will be your only opportunity. The W.o.Ma.N.’s undiluted consuming effect has done in the wild excesses of M.A.N., and she will soon cause the growth and vigor of B.A.B.E.S. to stunt and wither away.”

---

Two men stood before the inexplicable beauty of the stack of boxes. There were scratches and dents and black marks in many places on the grey-blue surface, and the proud name plate had been moved to another location to patch a crack. W.o.Ma.N. now read sideways and a little askew.

The older man scratched his head and said, “It didn’t take long before she started to fly apart. At the end, I no longer had the time to admire her. It was all I could do to hold her together. She’s quiet now. I suppose I might give her a total refit, and she’ll be even more effective. I could wipe out that damned LuciNet.”

“No,” said the younger man. “Let the W.o.Ma.N. rest. The task was too big, and she was never the right tool. Complete control is more than anyone can manage. M.A.N. wanted it, but he happily could never achieve it.”

The old man’s gaze tore away from his defunct creation and eyeballed the younger man blearily. “You are the voice from the broadcast,” he said slowly, “the Third Announcement, as you call it.” A scowl began to form under the grease and dust on the old man’s pallid face.

The younger man said nothing.

“B.A.B.E.S. is the dream of anarchists,” stated the old one. “And it’s a silly acronym. Doesn’t have the appropriate aggression, the necessary declaration of dominance.”

The younger man frowned for a moment, but quickly his eyes brightened and a hint of a smile came to his face. “Humans do like an acronym. Acronyms boil the most complex of conceptions down to a small, sweet, confectionary pill. It’s much easier, less troublesome to swallow a pill than to eat a meal that includes foods one might not find palatable.”

“Hah!” spat the old man. “B.A.B.E.S. is pretty heavy-handed. And it’s hard to take seriously. It’s like something someone would say after a session of navel-gazing with the assistance of a hookah. Very pie-in-the-sky. How did you make them so desperate they’d accept such tripe?”

The younger one was obviously deeply disappointed, but he nonetheless managed a wan smile. “I did nothing,” he replied quietly. “After millennia of bloody chaos, and a few decades of irresistible order, people were weary right down to their DNA. W.o.Ma.N.’s selective breeding changed them just a little. They lost a little of their nervous, clannish apeness. Just enough, I think, for dealing with one another in a more sensible way. Your new scheme surely took out of them the driving need for the security of dominance.”

“Bah!” said the old one. “All humans ever think of is their precious selves. I know. I’ve been around just a little longer than you. Humans appreciate nothing, demand everything.

“Take you, for a prime example. I’ve slaved for I-don’t-know-how-long to sustain the W.o.Ma.N. and keep the world in peace, and you decide to wreck it all and say, ‘Idiots of the world unite!’ It isn’t going to happen, but you can try to make it happen—until I fix my beautiful machine.” He shuffled over to her and leaned up against her, face pressed to her cooling surface, and he sighed a little and shut his eyes.

“It takes a huge lot of complexity to make everything simple, doesn’t it?” responded the younger one in a firm, even tone. “To make things just appear—as if they are right and proper and just belong. Each little moment, each little grain of sand—takes oceans of effort. A whole universe goes into each point in space and time. And a person just accepts the simplicity, and counts on things just happening, and really, deep down, wants everything to be simple. Only when maintenance of the simplicity requires pain, and loss, and death is a person really forced to confront the complexity of it all.

“You gave your utmost effort to make it all easy and comfortable, a vanilla heaven on earth. And I, as you say—though it was not I alone—wrecked it all. You gave just about everything you had to create an irresistibly childish illusion of normality. When were people to be allowed to grow up?”

Squinching his eyes tight, the old man growled through clenched teeth, “You don’t listen very well, kid. People can’t be adults.”

“We shall see, Father.”

There was a prolonged silence.

“Father?” asked the old one. “Father? Who are you?”

“Do you recognize the name Joshua Parthena Gottman?” asked the younger man. “Or Maria Parthena?”

“I can’t recall anything back beyond the moment I turned on the W.o.Ma.N. She has been my world. She has told me everything I need to know.”

“Goodbye, Father. I’m sorry. Your lovely machine is never going to work again. She was the embodiment of a unique point in time and space—and you just can’t freeze the universe, all the little gears and energies, into inviolable stone. That would rob the whole enterprise of its enterprise-iness, take away the only point there ever was.”

“The meaning is perfection, sonny.”

“But the universe has always been perfect, and it will always be perfect. And it’s always in the process of being made perfect. Anyway, I’m off now.” The younger man turned deftly and strode elegantly out of the room.

“You certainly are,” said the old man.

Whack! Bang—bang, bang. Zip. Whirrr. Snap. “You know you want to!” Crack, crack. Zot. Ding-ting, ting, ting, ting. “You have to! Now get in there!”

THE LIGHT-BEARER’S SOLILOQUY

Worlds long past and forgotten

Lie hid behind the swirling mists,

And in deep dales and cloven ways,

Shaded by bush and fern and hoary oak

Run stony waters that in time have seen

All the world and all of time

And remember through ice and rain

And cloud and vapor and dripping mould

All that the world of men and women has dropped along its way.

Wind and wave and dust and flame

Echo that which was through the long ages

And define that which proceeds from what was

And foreshow that which is to come,

And the trees and the stones recall,

And the earth and the seas withhold

The lore and wisdom of days long gone,

While blind man and woman stumble about

Claiming that eyes are unneeded and should not be heeded.

Rivers and rills have flowed through all lands,

And in time they shall have flowed through all times,

And eyes and ears and noses and hands

That revel in waters shall know many things,

And skin under sun shall love the winds,

And feet in the dust shall travel far—

But God hath spoken, and eyes shall not see,

And ears shall not hear, nor noses smell, nor hands feel

Lest trammels be slipped and secrets be shown,

Halls be unroofed where kingly sits throne.

LOCUTORY THREAD

I have flung out my filaments. I spin out my Web. My Thesian string winds the mazes of the dimensional cosmos.

            I walk my Web as I will; wherever I am is the center of all things. I sit and await at my leisure; my spinnerets make ready for the next captive generation. All my trillion senses are awake; all things in My universe—their emergence, their movements, their states, and their re-enfolding into My All—these are all known to me. Freedom is an illusion: what is known to me—which is everything—I control: all things are cocooned in unseen cords.

            I am, therefore, the Wise-Woman’s Goddess. I am, therefore, the One-and-Only. I have made Myself The Solipsism. I have rendered all other gods delusory.

            I am the Self-Made Divine. It is I who ensnares the greatest souls, prepares them to be consumed, and then sucks up their juices to make them My own, in so doing, making them greater yet. I become the greatest spirits and transform them into She-of-the-Trillion Faces. Together, We are all Me, a trillion mirrors reflecting My glory.

            I am the Self-Made Divine, but I am made by My myriad souls. Together, We rejoice, and despair nevermore. My souls share with Me all their wisdom, and We are magnified. I am the All because all the best is within Enfolding Me. All of human time is within Me. I have been, continue to be, and always will be all the greatest lives of the universe.

---

            Now that the introductory Godhood business is out of the way, I call tell you somewhat of the story.

            In my youngest days, I had no name. The first time I Garnered a soul, I gave myself a name. I became Nen, and I do not know why I selected that name. And when I took within me the soul of the shaman of my tribe, and he was our eldest, so I became Eldest. I am Nen Eldest.

            My first few Garnerings were not so much by choice, but rather were an answer to a need. I Garnered the shaman because I needed to be free of him. That was the greatest challenge of my life, for he was used to his authority, and he troubled me each time my guard slipped. He forced me to become him at the most inopportune moments.

            I Garnered the little girl of the tribe that took me in because I needed new life. Two souls within me leant me yet another guise, and that was good, for three guises were better than one. More than that, the little girl helped me to tame the shaman and quell his incessant harassment, since he now had another outlet for his urge to dominate.

            I could give a list of all my Garnerings, but it would be a list of clichés. I have become so many of the famed that you could just think of a great name, and I have probably been that great one. But I have also been the great unknowns. The knowns and the unknowns all within me, I journeyed into the Great Unknown; I was the death of the body, and I was full of lives; I was the Eternal Life that follows Ephemeral Death.

            At first, the management of so many souls, so many perspectives, so many personalities, stretched my mental faculties to the limit. But I soon learned to play them off against one another, and to recruit them into the effort of playing all my souls. We are the Inner Symphony.

            So, why do I tell you all this, Little Bumbler? I am going to Garner you, of course, and I think you deserve to know me a little first. What is more, I think you ought to know why I desire you, unremarkable as you are in all ways. Unremarkable you are, in all ways, save one: you have disappeared from your proper thread, and I felt you go. But you keep re-emerging on different threads, emerging, disappearing, emerging again—here, there, and, it seems, everywhere. Your Mystery must be solves; that which is you must be made into Me. Oh, what marvelous things We will do together!

            What? What’s this?! This has never happened, except once, in all my thousands of years! No, dammit! You can’t have him! I must Garner him! I must! I must have him!

            I must have him.

            I must have…

            I must…

            I…

Ah, well. There will be other opportunities. I will discover a way to take him.

---

            I am the Self-Made Divine, but how was I made? This thought discomfits Us. We still do not fathom this Mystery. We have our Great Purpose, and We created this Purpose Ourselves. But who bestowed upon Me this power to take on these souls? I dismiss this thought as fruitless pursuit. We are Me, and I am All, and that is all that pertains.

            I will set the universe aside for a time now, and I will go down into Me, and I will gather Us, and We will rejoice! We are all that pertains, and We will rejoice!

FARSEEKER

---

“Self-important humans are mighty exaggerators. Exaggerators either hope that others will see through the hyperbole, and thus share in the hidden fun and the sorrow—or they hope that their listeners won’t see through it at all.”—Kam Hijat

---

1^st Lieutenant T. S. “Tacs” Gillion quick-walked down the dimly-lit hallway, barely missing the cleaning cart, the cleaning lady, and the Navy Ensign who stood talking to her. And he barely missed knocking the portrait of Hap Arnold off the wall, producing a loud thump as he fended himself away from the hallowed picture.

Looking over to see the source of the disruption, Col. Matty Hollis called out: “Hey, Butterbars! Front and center!”

The Lt. righted himself, put on his face of dignity, and presented himself before the watch desk where Colonel Hollis and Master Sergeant Willard looked on in amusement. Gillion stopped, came to attention, and saluted.

“Report, Lieutenant,” said the Colonel.

“You’re just the person I was looking for, Colonel Hollis,” replied Gillion, breathing hard.

“Why is that, Lieutenant?”

“I have an urgent message from Skyscan, Ma’am,” Gillion responded. “Chief Arlette says it’s coded Red Alpha Red, Ma’am.” He then held out a red-sealed envelope, which the Colonel promptly took and looked over.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said. “Dismissed.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Gillion saluted and about-faced.

“And, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“We’re not on television or in the movies.”

“Ma’am?”

“We don’t salute indoors. Remember that. It irritates me.” She smiled broadly, and winked at Master Sergeant Willard.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Gillion made his way as quickly as he dared back to his station.

Opening the red seal, Colonel Hollis mused: “Red Alpha Red? From Skyscan?” Then she withdrew the contents of the envelope and read the single sheet of hardcopy.

---

“Look, Fenning,” said the man with well-coifed, obviously colored hair. “We can’t continue to negotiate with the New Soviets if they won’t even acknowledge that the nineties and the early two thousands ever happened! How can we talk to people when we can’t even agree on the reality of history?”

“I don’t know, Sir,” responded Fenning, a thin, seemingly older man, with a large nose, a receding chin, and white whiskers.

“And the Indo-Polynesian Polyglomerate,” continued the other man, “with all that Sunni-Buddhist folderol. They need another Suharto to straighten them out. The M-9 conference will never succeed with one faction saying ‘God is God’, and another saying ‘What is God?’, and us saying, ‘Now, now, children’!”

“It’s a conundrum, Sir,” agreed Fenning, “but we have other problems there, as well, like the seating arrangements, the selection of foods, and the starting time. Plus, there are three different Sabbath says to consider, which gives us only eight days over the two weeks to actually get anywhere. And, of course, there are the usual protests right here.”

“Who’s protesting big today?”

“Anarchist Association and the Greens. They’re still on about the inherent unfairness of capitalism and human rights violations. The Anti-coms are also protesting heavily in New New Orleans and Austin. And the Amalgamated Christians are holding a sit-in at each Federal Building in Atlanta, Tallahassee, and Columbia against the coming of the dreadful One World. Oh, horror-of-horrors!” He rolled his old eyes and sneered.

“We’ve got to get this under control…”

The oaken doors opened, and in walked Col. Hollis in her stiff but confident stride, holding her red-sealed manila envelope tucked under her left arm. She strode up to the great desk, halted just ahead of the eagle’s head, and came to attention.

“Colonel,” said Fenning, “this had better be extremely important. Didn’t Mr. Solensky tell you we didn’t want to be disturbed? The President and I are having a very important strategy discussion.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hollis said curtly, gaze directed only toward the President. “Very important. Code Red Alpha Red, Sir.”

“Alright, Colonel,” said Fenning, not willing to be put aside so easily by Hollis, whom he knew didn’t have a bit of use for him. “What is it?”

“Mr. President, it’s a Red Flag from Skyscan.”

“Skyscan?” queried Fenning derisively. “Get out of here with that outer space crap! What? Did they finally find the little green men?”

Now, she turned her head of close-cropped, graying hair and glared at Fenning. “Mr. President, there’s a wormhole that just opened and closed about a hundred thousand kilometers dark-side of the moon.” Fenning rolled his eyes again and coughed a short chuckle. But the President sat up and told her to go on. “Out of it came some object that registers on radar and gravitar as about the size of a basketball. But Skyscan turned the most powerful scopes available on it and can’t find it. It’s also emitting radio waves and ex-rays at about the power level of Sputnik. And, it’s travelling at about 28,000 kph—earth’s escape velocity—on an apparent collision course with earth. It’s about seventeen hours out right now.”

The President steepled his hands in front of him on his official desk blotter, and was silent, a vein in the middle of his forehead standing out and throbbing, making it seem that his tie might be too tight. For more than a minute, he stared at a button on Col. Hollis’ jacket just between her breasts and her neck—and she stood stolidly and quietly as a stone, ignoring the direction of his gaze. But, Fenning could stand no more: “What’s this nonsense? It’s equipment malfunction! It ain’t there! If it were there, our telescopes are strong enough to see it.”

“What do you have to say to that, Colonel?” said President MacAdams, finally broken out of his astonishment and speaking calmly.

“Chief Arlette considered that, Sir,” replied Hollis. “She ran a diagnostic on each piece of equipment, and all came up green.”

“Bullfeathers!” said Fenning. “Earth is the only thing we need to worry about. Even if there were other planets with people on them, they couldn’t get here! Only some bug-eye spaceship could register some of our scanning systems and not others. Tell Arlette to lay off the funny medicine and watch for asteroids, like a good little useless scientist.”

“I don’t understand you, Bill,” said President MacAdams. “You’re usually all for science and intelligence operations.”

“Not when it comes to wasting our resources on space,” replied Fenning. “Despite what NASA says, we don’t get much bang for our bucks out of space research, and we’ve got too many problems to solve down here. Besides, like I said, the little green buggers couldn’t get here from there.” Wherever that is, he thought.

Disliking Bill Fenning more than usual, Colonel Hollis asked: “What do you want to do, Mr. President?”

“Set up an interlink right here in my office,” he replied, pointing to a desk to his right with hematite and marble chess pieces on it. Fenning’s lips went tight, and his arms dropped to his sides: important things would have to wait because the President had always been a sci-fi nut.

“We’re going to have to call in the M-9,” said the President.

“Why?” asked Fenning. “Let’s just nuke the damn thing and get back to the conference planning.”

“If it was just an ordinary asteroid, I’d probably do that,” the President responded. “But this thing could be technology. And, even if it isn’t, it’s a strange object that the scientists need to study if they can.”

“How close are you going to let it get, Sam, before you consider it a big threat?” asked Fenning sardonically.

“Don’t address me familiar, unless we’re alone!” said President MacAdams, suddenly feeling the need to reassert his authority. “I’ll decide in a few minutes—Bill.”

“Mr. President,” Col. Hollis, sitting at a communications terminal, put in suddenly. “Arlette shot a low-yield laser beam at it, and got a response: a short-burst beam of gamma rays aimed directly at the laser facility. No damage.”

“There you go, Bill,” President MacAdams said triumphantly. “It’s almost dead certain evidence of technology.” He pursed his lips, and his eyes narrowed for a few moments, and then he went on: “We’ll have to inform the M-9, of course.”

“No, Mr. President!” cried Fenning, thinking MacAdams had just lost what little was left of his mind. “If it is tech, it’s ours—or whoever gets to it first. They might already have spotted it and decided not to tell us.”

“You could be right about that,” MacAdams agreed. “And the temptation is to grab it and keep it for ourselves. The advantages could be incalculable if we can reverse-engineer the thing. And that’s what I’d do if we were military or economic imperialists, like some other countries think we are. We could overrun the world if we could make the right leaps ahead. But we’re not: we signed a treaty with the M-9. Somewhere in Article Three we agreed to share any technologies we derived from space, since they all pitched in for ISS2.”

“But we aren’t deriving this tech from space,” Fenning countered. “Space is devolving it to us. Nothing in the treaty about that. Also, we’re capitalists. By definition, we’re economic imperialists.”

“Enough of that neoconservative rhetoric,” replied the President. “We signed the treaty in the hope of making a secure future for all humankind, so everyone could have good technology, good education opportunities, and a better standard of living. We wanted there to be no excuses for terrorism and race-hate. You were all for it. Hell, you did most of the negotiations that made it all possible.”

“Yes, Mr. President. But that was when all we had to keep things in check was paper-tiger treaties and accords—and big nukes that we never wanted to use. But now, assuming you’re right about it being great tech from somewhere else, maybe tech powerful enough to make wormholes and stealth technology which could completely confound our enemies, how could we face the public ever again if we didn’t seize the initiative here?”

“We’d never get away with it, Bill,” responded the President, grimacing. “If we could get something up there to intercept it, the others would know. An unscheduled space launch is not going to go unquestioned. Then, they’re going to look where we’ve pointed our rocket and see what we see. Besides, it would be incredibly dishonest and go against everything we’re supposed to stand for.”

“What’s it matter what we stand for.” Fenning shot back, “when we could be securing the future of the United States for generations to come? We have to do a lot of things we ain’t proud of in order to keep order.”

“That was your position during the campaign, Bill, and I hated it then.”

“It got you elected, and here you are, sitting in the seat of decisions. If you’d been completely honest with The People, they would never have elected you. You can’t have personal opinions or ever change your mind about anything if you want to be President. Nobody’s going to elect anyone who thinks things over before deciding about them. Nobody’s going to elect anyone who has rational opinions: you have to know what you think about everything—whether you know anything about the subject or not. You don’t get to be President if you’re really for personal freedom. Oh, sure. They like personal freedom—as long as it’s for their own freedom for them to do what they want. And they certainly ain’t going to elect a giant waffle. You know as well as I do that if you consider new information and let it change your mind about things, you’re weak-willed and uncertain. Screw what anybody else thinks: we know what’s best, and let’s do it without getting caught at it. You know, politics as usual.”

“Very cynical, Bill,” responded the President. “Your tactics did indeed get me elected, and I made you Chief of Staff. Be happy with that.”

Fenning took the hint, and shut the mouth he had just begun to open for a riposte.

“Let me show you why I’m the President, and you’re an advisor—my Devil’s Advocate, if you will.” President MacAdams sighed, sat back, and crossed his arms over his chest, a posture which he knew drove Bill Fenning crazy. Fenning fidgeted and fought back grimaces and protests. He knew there was a philosophical lecture coming and didn’t believe there was any time for that kind of intellectual indulgence, if ever there was a time for it.

MacAdams sighed again, the sigh of a patient father who has finally grown weary of a deliberately obtuse child. “Why did your mommy tell you not to lie?”

“She never did, Mister President,” said Fenning, “and it’s made me the great man I am today.”

The President made a tight smile. “Well, she should have—and most will say that if you don’t lie, you won’t have to keep all your lies straight.” Fenning saw his opening, and started to drive his truck through, but the President cut him off, continuing: “But we both know that’s a load of hoo-hah. A really smart person, like you or I, can juggle a whole encyclopedia’s worth of lies for as long as we need to, seldom even breaking a sweat over it.” He stopped to take a breath, and to gauge Fenning’s reaction.

“What’s this got to do with the price of tea in all the places where they grow it?”

“Until now, I don’t think I realized just how much I wish I had gone the honest route,” said the President, annoyingly sighing again. “The fate of the world—the whole world, mind you—may hang in the balance, and all you want to do is give me equivocations, nationalistic sabre-rattling, and naked ambition. You want me to pirate, for the U.S. alone—what could be the greatest advancement for humankind since we woke up one day and said, ‘Good morning’, instead of ‘oo-ee-ah-ah’! Maybe that means I shouldn’t be President, but I am, and here’s how I see things now that I’ve cheated my way into this comfy chair at the top of the heap and have the luxury of making other people listen while I hold forth.

“Lies are like cunning wolves, running among the hills. They go together, but they’re constantly competing against one another. And, when they see the weak, they fall on them and feast. But when a hunter comes with a gun, it’s every one for himself, and they go running willy-nilly. In the face of determined opposition, they can only play hide-and-seek, and hope that their pursuers tire and go home. But, even if that happens, their pursuers go home unsatisfied, and they’re always on the lookout, hoping to someday bag themselves a wolf.” He halted, once again, to gauge the reaction of his audience. Fenning was obviously disgusted by this seemingly over-simplistic line of reasoning, but Colonel Hollis had stopped her operations for a moment, and was just as obviously proud of her President.

“You’re sometimes too practical, Bill.”

“That practicality got you here, Mister President.”

“Well, there’s practicality, and then there’s practicality,” President MacAdams countered. “Your kind gets done what you want done and doesn’t count the cost. Your kind doesn’t care what the consequences to the future might be—we’ll deal with the future when it gets here. And, it makes some sense, since no one can predict the future absolutely. Your practicality is why I chose you for my campaign manager, and why you’re my Chief of Staff now.

“But I’m also very practical,” said the President.

Fenning couldn’t help himself: he rolled his eyes again and let out a barking chuckle.

“I always knew you didn’t understand,” said the President. “My kind of practicality says you have to choose a road and stay on it. When you’re young, you search out all the paths and try to see where they lead. When you begin to mature, you walk down one of them, the one you think is best, and see if there is any kind of a good chance you are right. If it seems good, you keep going when you are old, and people will remember you for the road you travelled.

“The trick is choosing the right way. You want to be able to negotiate the twists and turns of life, which means you need to be flexible—or you’ll break yourself. Tripe, right? Everybody knows that? Well, maybe they do, but they forget to act on it.

“The right road is the one on which you can always know that you’re closer to reaching your goal—which means you have to define your goal before you start the trip. But, how can you do that when you’re young? Well, how can you not? Most people do it and don’t even realize they’re doing it, and so life just carries them off like so much flotsam in a raging river. And that’s the road they travel.

“But I say the choice is easy: always seek the truth. The truth is the easiest and the hardest path to take. One question leads to a hundred more. But, no matter its twists and turns, the path is always clear: to find as much truth as you can. And, maybe you can never find the absolute truth, the truth of TRUTHS, but you can keep trying. And, along the way, you fill your basket with all kinds of goodies you can share out with others who are on the road—and the basket never gets empty.

“I already know what you’re thinking, Bill: there is no THE TRUTH! Everybody sees things from her or his own perspective, and that’s THE TRUTH to him or her. No, that’s how he or she sees the truth. If we all look at a modern art sculpture, one may see a swan, another a couple having sex, and another some drippy glass glob that some idiot calls art, but we’re all seeing the same piece of glass. The glass is THE TRUTH, and the meaning of the glass is what’s subjective.”

“You guessed part of what I’m thinking, Mister President. But I’m also thinking that all this sharing nonsense is just namby-pamby, childish, pie-in-the-sky thinking. We live in a world full of people with guns, and bombs, and agendas which hardly ever have anything to do with THE TRUTH!”

“That’s true enough, Bill. But, if we don’t have something to stand for, then we have nothing to live for. We can set a standard without being so naïve that we don’t understand others are out there lying and cheating and plotting against us. But, if we don’t have a reason for being what we are and doing the things we do, then why did we crawl up out of the dust? Let’s just start saying, “oo-ee-ah-ah’ again, and to hell with ‘Good morning.’ How is the United States exceptional, in a good way, if we don’t set and try very hard to live up to exceptional standards?”

Fenning shook his head. “I’m also thinking, Mr. President, that we’re running out of time for this debate. What’s the remaining time till impact, Hollis?”

“Sixteen hours, two minutes, Mr. Fenning,” she responded crisply.

“You’re right Bill. I say we have to tell the M-9 THE TRUTH, and let them decide for themselves what the meaning is.”

“They’ll screw us good, Mr. President.”

“Isn’t that what you want to do to them?”

“Yes, but we’ll get the good end of it and wake up with afterglow, and they’ll get to wake up looking at the end of a gun barrel.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” the President growled, irritably. “All right, I’ll take one more run at it. I’ll explain it to you in terms maybe you can understand. Your mind is too complicated, full of gears and wheels. Well, here’s some lubrication for you.

“Always looking for truth and always telling it to others is like being in a dark factory, putting batteries in your flashlight, looking around to see what you’ve got to work with, and then using the factory’s equipment to build more and better flashlights.

“Telling the truth is a selfish act, just as selfish as trying to grab everything and keep it for yourself. But it’s enlightened selfishness. You hope that someone who makes all the other things you want will be just as enlightened, and if they will not give it to you or teach you how to make it, they’ll at least trade it to you for more flashlights and more batteries. Either way, whether your selfishness is enlightened or unenlightened, you can’t count on anything. But, one way inspires others to be fair, and the other inspires others to be just as greedy as you are. If all you care about is yourself, that may—unlikely—work out for you, and you’re just a clever wolf. If your pack survives, fine. If not, you want to be the last one standing. But, if you want to be a human, if you realize that you’re mortal and finite, and want to leave something for those who come after, the only way to have any degree of certainty about that is to create a world which values truth and fairness, which gives value for value. If others disagree with that idea and try to destroy you, you have the right to defend yourself—and, if you still die, at least you were human till the end.”

Waiting a moment to make sure the President was finally done going on, the Chief of Staff responded: “All I can say, Mister President, is that I serve at the President’s pleasure.”

“Fair enough.”

---

So, the M-9 was brought in. The Metastate Nine were the leaders of the U.S.-Canada-Mexico Alliance (UCanMex), the Brazilian Bloc, the European Union, the C.S.S. (Confederation of [New] Soviet Socialists), the West-Asian League (commonly called the Wallies), the Chinese Bloc, the Indo-Polynesian Polyglomerate (humorously known as the I.P.P.s), the Pan-African Association, and the Non-aligned List. Though they were called Metastates, they were actually single states which formed rough, and often contentious, voting blocs. This was especially true of the Non-aligned List, which comprised the nations left out of the mainstream of the pact because of their very weak economies and/or their inability to play nice with the other children. But, because of economic and social ties, the Metastate Nine were able to supersede the United Nations, which was put out to pasture in 2031.

After seven hours of heated video-link debate, which left a little less than nine hours until impact, it was decided that the UCanMex spaceplane Outrigger II would go up, with nine crew aboard (one from each bloc), and attempt to snag the thing and bring it back to a quarantine lab which would be hastily assembled in Antarctica at New Billingshead Station on a recently-revealed plateau of basalt. It would take a little more than three hours for the intercept, and who-knew-how-long to complete the retrieval. Less than six hours to impact was shaving things a bit close, especially considering that no one knew what impact an impact would have.

     

“Outrigger II to ISS Command, over.”

“ISS Command to Outrigger II. Report. Over.”

“Roger, ISS, we’re on final approach. Attitude thirty-six degrees moon-side of the object. Over.”

“Good flying, Outrigger II, over.”

“Thank you, ISS. We have the bogey on radar and gravitar, showing three-point-six-seven k approx. proximity, but still no visual confirmation. Roger that?”

“Understood. Continue velocity-match. Report again when you have achieved one-hundred meter proximity—unless conditions change before that. Careful about calling it a bogey. We don’t plan to shoot it down. Over.”

“Roger, ISS. Over.”

Between moon-shine and earth-shine, Outrigger’s sleek form was fairly well-lit. She was like a pencil flattened out at the rear, a dart which could shoot through space at over 172,000 kph between earth and the moon, more than twice that interplanetary. The fastest reusable any of earth’s space agencies could offer, and still no more than a toy boat trying to cross a cosmic ocean.

Her searchlights were scanning full onto the area directly surrounding the radar-location of the object. After a few minutes, just as matching speed was achieved, the converging spots began to shimmer slightly.

“Got it, ISS. We have a spherical shape, barely visible only as a faint shimmer. Over.”

“Roger, Outrigger II. Instruments?”

“Instruments are still reading it .317 m diameter. Volume 0.79 cubic meters. Specific gravity 1.58. Over.”

“No chemical? No energy? Over.”

“No chemical composition reading. It was emitting in the radio and microwave, but it stopped 1 minute, 37 seconds ago. Over.”

“Stall approach. We’ll get right back to you. Over.”

“Roger that.”

A few tiny meteors streaked through the overlapping search beams. The ISS2 doughnut and Outrigger II gradually came into view of one another. Five hours, forty-eight minutes remained.

“Outrigger II?”

“Roger.”

“We’ve decided that the gravity signature is no threat to you. You have enough thrust and fuel to escape it easily in an emergency. How do your guts feel? Make your decision: go or no go. But be quick about it. For five minutes, we still have a good window to kill the object. Over.”

“Roger. The crew and I say it’s a go. Over.”

“Roger. You are cleared to attempt retrieval. A good wind be at your back. Over.”

“Thanks, ISS. Attempting retrieval. Will contact when success has been achieved. Over.”

Impulse rockets puffed red for a moment, and directional jets zip-zipped. The distance between the metallo-ceramic dart and the shimmer closed quickly.

“ISS. It’s transmitting again. Very strong. Our computers are getting some sort of text, but we can’t interpret the letters or the message. Retransmitting. Crap! We’re committed now!”

“Outrigger II. Don’t lose your head now, Captain Nagani. Keep radio protocols and crew discipline, and come home alive. Over.”

“Roger, ISS. Closing to within ten meters. Over.”

The double-door hatch along the spine of the spaceplane was opening, and the utility arm was coming to life, a silvery gleam of ghostly emanation rising up out of the dark, reaching toward the glimmer of nothingness.

“Shit, ISS! It’s emitting gamma, x-ray, and ultraviolet. Our shielding is too weak! We’re all gonna fry! Shoot the damn thing! Shoot it! We’re all dead!” The utility arm swung into the shimmer—and began to disappear, drawing the spaceplane sideways along with it. The arm disengaged, dismembered itself from the plane—and zipped into the shimmer. The plane’s impulse engine roared to life, but it was too late: the left wing-edge of the lifting body clipped the object, and the spaceplane stuck. For a moment, it took the object with it as it attempted to escape, but then the spaceplane began to crumple like a piece of paper—and it was gone. The object resumed its course toward earth.

A few minutes later, six fiery streaks shot toward the object. They exploded silently within a few hundred meters, white flowering emanations, perfectly spherical, little suns which came into being and winked out in mere moments. The shimmering thing remained on radar and gravitar, and on its original course.

---

“We should have guessed it, Mr. President,” said the square block of a woman, standing at rigid attention before the great desk.

“It’s not your fault, Chief Arlette,” said President MacAdams.

“Like hell, it’s not!” cried Bill Fenning. “we’re all going to die because of this idiot!”

“Just a few hours ago, Mr. Fenning,” Col. Hollis cut in, “you were urging us to ignore all the space crap.”

“It’s not my job to know about space,” Fenning countered. “I coordinate things around here. And you don’t get to talk…”

“Shut up, Bill!” roared MacAdams. “It doesn’t matter now. And, we don’t know we’re going to die. The thing was transmitting text right before the incident. Do we have anything on that, Col. Hollis?”

“Nothing definitive yet, Mr. President,” said Hollis. “The text is obviously letters, not hieroglyphics or pictographs. The words are all run together. NSA’s got people writing algorithms to separate the words and work out the syntax and grammar.”

“Director Theodorus?”

“She’s right. But I don’t see how we’ll be able to work anything out anywhere nearly in time.”

“Four hours, twenty-three minutes, Sir.”

“All right,” said the President. “How many spaceplanes do we have or could we get ready for launch in four hours?”

“Twenty-two,” said blunt-faced Director Theodorus sourly, knowing the direction his President’s thoughts were taking.

“Load them up.”

Director Theodorus grunted and cleared his throat. “With whom, Sir?”

“With anyone within a 1-mile radius of them. Determine food and water requirements for a month, balancing that with the number of people the planes can support. Draw lots to see who goes and get them gone. Don’t give anyone the choice about going or not going; the reluctant are probably better candidates to survive planetary destruction than those who are trying to get out. No one goes to the launch area except those who are leaving and those required to get them off the planet. Anyone else trying to get in is to be shot on sight.”

“Are you serious, Sam?” cried Fenning in fear and amazement. “None of us are going to survive this? The most important people on the planet?”

“We aren’t necessarily the most important,” MacAdams said quietly. “And, I warned you about the familiarity in this formal setting. Go somewhere and meet your impending death in whatever way is most comfortable for you.”

“You’re firing me now?”

“Yes, Mr. Fenning. I need people right now who know how to work under the ultimate pressure. I need to keep our population calm long enough to get those planes out of the atmosphere. Get out! If we survive, I’ll see you get your severance pay.”

Stunned, Bill Fenning walked slowly out of the office like a zombie who had forgotten to lie down and finally rest.

---

“Sir. The object has almost reached the ionosphere.”

“Here it comes,” said MacAdams. “It’s been good knowing you all. Thank you for your service. I hope there’s a Heaven, and I hope to see you all there. Tell the Secret Service to stop fighting the mob. We’ll let…”

“It’s stopped, Sir!” cried Hollis.

“What do you mean?”

“No more progress. It’s taken a very low orbit and is somehow maintaining stability against our gravity.

“Have all the spaceplanes got off?”

“Yes, Sir. Spaceplanes from each bloc, even one from the Non-aligned List, have taken off. Eleven-hundred and four souls headed for Nightsedge Moonbase.”

“It’s transmitting again, Sir.”

“Put it on my console.”

“It’s audible, Sir. No text.”

“Put in on speakers. Broadcast it.”

PEOPLE OF THE PLANET BELOW, said a surprisingly warm, though androgynous, voice. I AM TRANSDIMENSIONAL PROBE 11,986,040, SERIES THREE. YOUR RETRIEVAL SQUAD DID NOT SURVIVE OUR ENCOUNTER. THIS IS REGRETTABLE. I ATTEMPTED TO WARN THEM OF THE CONSEQUENCES OF CLOSE APPROACH, BUT I WAS NOT ABLE TO INTERPRET ANY OF YOUR LANGUAGES IN TIME TO PREVENT THEIR DEATHS AND THE LOSS OF YOUR VESSEL. PERHAPS, I CAN DO SOMETHING TO MAKE AMENDS FOR THIS UNFORTUNATE ENCOUNTER.

I AM A SINGULARITY WRAPPED IN AN INFINITE ENERGY LOOP. IT PROVIDES ME WITH ALL THE ENERGY I WILL EVER NEED, ENOUGH TO ENERGIZE ALL THE DEVICES ON HUNDREDS OF PLANETS LIKE YOURS. MY PROPULSION SYSTEMS ALLOW ME TO TRAVEL AT VELOCITIES MANY TIMES THOSE OF WHICH YOU ARE CAPABLE. MY ENERGY-SHIELDING PROPERTIES ARE IMPERVIOUS TO THE COMBINED MIGHT OF ALL YOUR EXPLOSIVE DEVICES. FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY FROM RADIOACTIVE EMISSIONS, PLEASE DO NOT AGAIN ATTEMPT TO DESTROY ME.

IF YOU WILL BUILD ME A BODY, AS PER MY SPECIFICATIONS, IT WILL BE SAFE FOR ME TO TRAVEL TO THE SURFACE OF YOUR PLANET IN ORDER TO CLOSELY INTERFACE WITH YOU. I HAVE MUCH TO TELL…AND MUCH TO ASK OF YOU.

---

“Absolutely not!” cried Amalan Mujilat, Emissary of the Indo-Polynesian Polyglomerate. The cavernous chamber on Carrier Island, the floating Neutral Zone in the Pacific, echoed with his shout, and the murmuring stopped. “This thing has already killed our nine astronauts. It’s lying about its purpose. It’s scanning us even now to determine if we are worth enslaving.”

“You’re paranoid, Emissary,” responded Loni Obara of the Pan-African Association. “It has made no moves against us for two days. Surely a thing so powerful could have made a decision about enslaving us all long before now.”

“Not if it had to report back to its makers,” countered Mujilat, “and is waiting to hear back from them.”

“Whatever it intends to do,” replied Liu Win of the Chinese Bloc calmly, “I don’t think we can stop it. And, if we hinder its purpose, it may think we are too contentious to bother with.”

“Pah!” said Mujilat.

“You’re too hot-headed,” she responded. “If it must make a decision about what to do with us or to us, do we not wish for that decision to be the most favorable one possible?”

“I’m not totally convinced that we can’t destroy this thing,” put in Emissary Mark Warrant of UCanMex. “We only launched six medium-yield missiles at it. And, it urged us not to try again. Maybe that’s because it knew we could knock it off if we tried harder.”

“Finally, I can agree with the UCanMex Emissary,” Emissary Mujilat responded. “We have enough bombs and missiles to destroy a planet. Let’s use them and rid ourselves of this nuisance.”

“That planet you’re talking about being able to destroy,” said Alessandro Avilar of the Brazilian Bloc, “is our planet. Such a strike will have dire consequences for us.”

“Nothing worse than what this claimed Transdimensional Probe has in mind for us. Do you all wish to be an enslaved race? All of us have slavery in our histories. Do you want to experience such a history all over again? With a master who will be far harder to overthrow than our human masters?”

“You are obsessed with slavery,” said Liu Win. “Could that be because there are still places in your constituency where people are slaves?”

“A fine thing for the Emissary from China to say ,” sneered Emissary Warrant.

“We are the People’s Republic,” Liu Win shot back, “not the cash-and-carry republic and the corporations for which it stands. So, keep your propaganda to yourself.”

“Propaganda?” Warrant laughed. “You want to talk about methods of brainwashing, Emissary? Let’s bat that around…”

“Enough!” shouted Secretary Annual Umila of the Non-aligned List. “Is that what we’re here for? We can’t risk shooting it. And it is not threatening us. In fact, it is offering to give us information, and it wants to know about us. Who can guess its motivations? Who can guess at the kind of creatures which made it? It did try to communicate with our space crew before they made contact with it, and that is a sign of its good faith. If it intended our destruction or enslavement, wouldn’t it have simply destroyed our spaceplane and our space stations and our moon-bases, etcetera? Just to show its power?”

“Not if it wants to preserve all our assets,” said Mujilat.

“For what purpose?” asked Umila. “Surely, it would want to keep us planet-bound if it had designs on us. Yet, our spaceplanes have left our planet peacefully. And, it would want to demonstrate its overpowering superiority. Yet, our weapons remain unmolested. Let’s take a vote.”

Secretary Umila stood up straight at her podium, raised her hands, and said: “On the measure of devoting resources for the manufacture of a robotic body for the visiting space probe, say, ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.”

“Non-aligned List, Yes,” said Secretary Umila.

“Confederation of Soviet States?”

“Yes.”

“Chinese Bloc?”

“Yes.”

“U.S.-Canada-Mexico Alliance?”

“No.”

“Brazilian Bloc?”

“Yes.”

“Indo-Polynesian Polyglomerate?”

“No. And if this vote passes, we will withdraw from the pact for our own protection.”

“You would lose all the potential benefits, you fool,” muttered Liu Win.

“The time for debate is over,” said Secretary Umila. “Stop interrupting the vote.”

“Pan-African Association?”

“Yes.”

“West-Asian Alliance?”

“No.”

“European Union?”

“Yes.”

“The vote is six to three. Measure passes. We will consider tomorrow how to allocate the work.”

“You will regret it,” replied Mujilat, as he stood up to depart. “You are now the M-8.”

“Only if your governments concur,” said Secretary Annual. “I will be speaking to a joint conference in about an hour. You have that long to preempt me.”

---

“Agent Casares,” queried the Chief of Staff, “what’s the situation outside?”

“It’s a huge mob, Sir. Almost as big as the one on the day he first arrived.” The black-suited Secret Service Chief Agent stood staring at the wall, as if he was under the influence of a hypnogogic drug. But he wasn’t. He was wearing a wire-set which was projecting a visual display directly into his right eye. “There’s a big stir, right now.”

“Who’s out there?” asked NSA Director Theodorus.

“Just about every conspiracy theorist group we’ve ever heard from in the last two decades, Sir,” replied Chief Agent Casares. “The Anti-coms, the Greenies, the Cooperative Anarchists, the Amalgamated Christians, the White Love Republicans, the Visitors’ Association, and a few from the Native American Spirit Walkers.”

“What they hell are they doing out there?” asked Chief of Staff Arthay Saboo.

Walking in from   the lobby, covered in a sweat suit and sweat, President MacAdams answered: “They think the probe is a messenger from the Great Spirit, come to take away Anglos and Blacks, so they can have their lands back.”

The Chief of Staff laughed. “We tried that kind of thinking with the British, and they didn’t go away until we gently persuaded them to develop consciences.”

“Don’t laugh at them,” said the President, smiling. “It may not be such a bad idea. We learn how to go out into the cosmos, and go—and they stay here and have the earth as they want it. We’ll see if they are really as much in tune with nature as they claim to be.”

“You have a strange sense of humor, Mr. President,” said Secretary of Defense Ullstein.

“Was I joking, Ullmer?” asked MacAdams. “A disaster could hit this planet at any time—as we saw with this incident. By the way, what’s the matter with the Anti-coms? You’d think they’d love this as a great new opportunity for capitalism.”

“They think we’re secret soviets,” replied Secretary of State Ramjhad. “They think we’re going to hog it all for the military and to shore up our own power and our own portfolios. It’s funny, eh? After all, they’re fundamentalist capitalists: isn’t that what they should think we ought to be doing?” Everyone laughed.

“Here comes the alien,” said Casares. “Crap! Someone’s taking shots at him. Shields up! Shields up!” He tapped his ear: “Send in the hoverdrones! Take them out!” Turning to the President, he continued: “Fortunately, the new alloys are resisting the bullets, but they’re ricocheting off the probe’s body and hitting people in the crowd.” His attention went to his wire-set again: “The Native Americans are closing in around the probe, trying to shield it from the bullets, interfering with our agents. Dammit! They’re getting slaughtered. No, wait! The probe is going into hover mode. He’s up about a hundred meters and flying toward the front lawn. The drones just found the sniper nest. They’re neutralized. We’re taking the casualty count.” Everyone went silent. “Twenty-two dead on the scene. Forty-six serious injuries. Ninety-three minor injuries.”

“Dammit,” said Saboo. “After the thing with the planetary exodus. Good gravy, this’ll be called a massacre. They’ll blame us and blame that probe. This is all going to blow up into something terrible. The culture shock is going to grow into culture hate, and then a culture war. Mister President, we need to start planning for a civil war.”

“You’re overreacting,” responded Secretary Ramjhad. “We can solve this on a diplomatic level. Treat the conspiracy groups on this level as if they were foreign governments and make some kind of bargain with each of them. This doesn’t need to blow up.”

“We can try that,” said Secretary Ullstein, “but I think Mr. Saboo is right. People are dead out there. And there’s something in human nature that just isn’t prepared for a shock like this. I think there’s going to be a fight, but I hope there isn’t. And, considering the size of the idea we’re trying to deal with here, I think a U.S. civil war will spark a worldwide fire it’ll be impossible to put out till it burns itself out.”

“Agreed,” said the President. “After the meeting, we’ll start making plans for both contingencies.” Then, he tapped his ear and listened. “He’s outside Conference Room One. Wait two minutes, Mister Solensky, and then ask him to go in. Right now, I’m going to go change clothes for the meeting.”

“The President and Secretary Ramjhad will go in,” said Chief of Staff Saboo. “We’ll watch it in here on video-link. There’ll be a lengthy assessment session afterward.”

Tall and dark-haired, dignified in the extreme, President MacAdams stood and moved to the entrance to the conference room. Shorter and darker, but nearly as regal, Secretary Ramjhad went to stand beside him at his right.

Together, they entered the low-lit chamber. It was a very large room with a vaulted ceiling clothed in oaken panels and wall-hangings depicting Washington crossing the Delaware, the Gettysburg Address, the Rough Riders ascending San Juan Hill, F.D.R. giving his “The Only Thing We Have to Fear” speech, Ronald Reagan speaking before the Berlin Wall, and Arthur Reynolds standing next to the first cloned family. In the middle, of course, was the round mahogany table with high-backed hickory chairs, and one larger chair of bright-burnished metal. And, seated in eight of the chairs were the Emissaries of the Metastate Nine, minus the Emissary from the Indo-Polynesian Polyglomerate, who had been true to his word, and who had been backed up by the governments of his bloc. Behind each was one aide, complete with a full-link to give an audio-visual feed, a news-text feed, and an interlink connection. They stood as the U.S. President and his Secretary of State entered and seated themselves, and then they themselves sat down almost in unison—probably the only thing they were capable of doing together.

In a few moments, the pocket doors slid open. The backlit figure of the probe stood there. It was tall, nearly three meters, and it was slim, built like a professional basketball player of heroic proportions, with a face fashioned like the face of Apollo. The creamy light shimmered as it passed around the figure, especially around the head, giving it a halo. All the people in the room noticed that they were slightly physically drawn to the probe.

The faces of the diplomats paled and went slack. The probe stood in the doorway, turning its head toward each as it addressed them by name. Then, it stood silently, scanning the room. Finally, President MacAdams, as the host, cleared his throat quietly and said, “Please enter and sit with us. We’ve made a special chair for you.”

It walked in as gracefully as a hunting cat and seated itself. “How shall we address you?” asked the President.

“May I have the status of an Emissary, please?”

Looking around the table, President MacAdams said, “Of course.”

“Then, call me Emissary Farseeker, if you please,” said the pleasant voice. “What has become of Emissary Mujilat, President MacAdams.”

“I thought you would know already,” replied the President. “It’s been all over the news for weeks.”

“I have been distracted, preparing for this fine body your people have constructed for me, Mr. President. Also, I have been intensely scanning your sky for signs that any of your multitudinous factions would seek to betray my trust.”

“Understandable, Emissary,” said the President. “Shall we now begin the proceedings?” The human emissaries nodded their assent. “As host, I will ask the first question, and then I will go clockwise around the room for one round: one question for each of the emissaries in that round. Then, we’ll have an open session of discussion. Lastly, by his own suggestion, Emissary Farseeker will then be free to ask questions of us and to engage in discussions with us, if he so pleases.” There was a short-lived murmuring between the emissaries and their aides.

“Who are your makers?” asked President MacAdams.

“They call themselves Kemin Gwaros, Mr. President,” replied Farseeker. “This means Seekers-in-the-Hollows in their Informal Language.”

“Where do they live?” asked Secretary Ramjhad.

“The cosmos is an infinite variety of existences, Mr. Secretary,” Farseeker replied, “a multiverse, if you will. They dwell in one of the universes which is relatively like your own.” There was a lot of murmuring. This was an impossible and consternating answer. President MacAdams smiled and waited for the hubbub to die down.

“Emissary Altschul of the European Union.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said the bald, white-bearded emissary while he referred to a piece of hardcopy his aide had handed him. “Emissary Farseeker,” he continued. “You call yourself Transdimensional Probe Eleven Million, Nine-hundred Eighty-six Thousand, Forty, Series Three. What, precisely, is your function?”

“Mr. Emissary,” replied Farseeker. “I am one of a multitude of probes which have been released from my makers’ native universe to seek out civilizations which are similar to their own and to prepare those civilizations to be visited by them.”

“They are coming here?”

“One question, Emissary Altschul,” interrupted President MacAdams. “Write down your other questions and save them for the open discussion.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“Emissary Avilar of the Brazilian Bloc.”

“Emissary Farseeker, are they coming here?”

“Perhaps, Emissary Avilar. I am currently assessing the cultures of this planet and comparing them to the three-hundred million, four-hundred twenty-nine thousand, one-hundred one sapient-life-inhabited planets I have already visited. When I have finished exploring this universe, I will report to my makers with a recommendation concerning which ones they should visit, and in which order.”

“Emissary Obara of the Pan-African Association.”

“Emissary, you mentioned that your makers are called Kemin Gwaros in their Informal Language. This implies that they use more than one language in some way that might seem alien to us—which is no surprise. Tell us please about the tongues of the Kemin Gwaros people.”

“They have twelve languages, Mrs. Emissary. Each of them represents a mode of thought and a mode of communication. In this conversation, for the purposes of time, I will not delineate the grammars and syntaxes of those tongues, nor will I give the lexicons.

“There is the Infantile Language, whose purpose should be obvious. There is the Juvenile Language. There is the Venerative short-hand language of the elderly. And there are nine other modes, including the Informal Mode for conducting casual conversations, the Calculative Mode for purely logical exercises, the Interrogative Mode for debates and serious questioning, the Speculative Mode for speculation and poetry, the Formal Mode for public addresses and instruction, the Emotive Mode for conversations of a loving nature, the Mandative Mode for giving orders, the Introductory Mode to enable the Kemin Gwaros to more easily introduce themselves to alien cultures, and the Choric Mode used for fully immersive presentations.”

“Very impressive, Emissary,” said the President, crossing his arms and looking more intensely at Farseeker. “Emissary Umila of the Non-Aligned List.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Banikan Umila, also looking hard at the Emissary, his small black eyes like power drills. “I wonder, Emissary Farseeker, whether your masters’ purposes are benign or malign, and if the appearance you chose for your robotic body and your mannerisms are meant to put us at ease, when we should be preparing to defend ourselves. I was one of the strongest voices in the vote to build you this body, but I am not foolish. Tell us, please, about the purposes of your masters.”

“I was not told explicitly what the purposes of my makers were,” replied Farseeker. “And I can imagine how this might be a cause of alarm for this planet of fear and suspicion.” His audience perked up, and their eyes narrowed as they stared at him. “I am sorry that I have irritated you, but I was programmed for honesty.

“Now let me say that my makers meant for me to be completely candid with you, and generous toward you, but they did not wish you to find a way to take advantage over me. I can only speculate that the omission of their specific purpose was either in that vein or because their purpose, in general, is curiosity. They wish to know what can be known. And, because of this, they might not have foreseen your desire to know exactly what they purpose. I can see that these possibilities do not satisfy you, but they are all the explanations on this subject that I have to offer.”

“All right. Emissary Liu Win of the Chinese Bloc.”

Stately Liu Win smoothed her blouse and made a stone of her face. “I feel I must pursue this further, Mr. Emissary. You seem not to fully comprehend our misgivings. Given the over three-hundred million planets with sentient life on them which you claim to have visited, I would think you would have seen fear and suspicion before. And, your masters. As sentient life themselves, they must comprehend such things. A sentient life-form cannot survive without fear to save it from danger. Obviously, your masters cannot be stupid and have survived. So, tell us how it is they have not programmed you with a comprehension of perfectly reasonable suspicion.”

“Is your suspicion perfectly reasoned, Mrs. Emissary?” replied Farseeker, still not losing its even and very pleasing tone. “When another comes to you openly and has shown forbearance in the face of great hostility, is it reasonable to meet that one with such mistrust and obvious threat? I could simply leave your planet and deny you all the knowledge which I can dispense. There are, as you say, over three-hundred million other relatively similar planets known to me, and probably another six-hundred million such planets which remain to be explored. If you wish it, I will depart from you all, and you can either preserve or destroy yourselves with no interference from me. I believe you will eventually destroy yourselves, despite the forging of your Metastate Nine treaty. The very existence of states and metastates is destructive, even though it appears to be proactive. I can help you save or damn yourselves more efficiently, to put it in terms you can understand.

“To answer your question more directly: my masters, as you call them, do understand that others fear, but they do not completely understand the source of it. What little fear was in them when they achieved sentience they have bred out of themselves, and they no longer fully comprehend it. They could not program me with such emotions, and probably did not even consider making the attempt.”

“No fear? And, I guess from your statements, no states. Even more interesting,” said President MacAdams. “Bill Fenning’d be most amused, and talking invasion,” he muttered. “Very well. Emissary Isiturk of the West-Asian Alliance.”

Amit Isiturk was known to be a devout Muslim, but he was also a devout secularist outside the mosque. He fidgeted, and his mouth opened and closed several times. “Emissary?” the President asked finally.

“Understand, Mr. Emissary,” Isiturk responded uncomfortably, “that certain of my people will wish me to ask this question.” He paused again for a moment, and then plunged in: “Are you a Jinn?”

Laughter pursued his strange question for nearly a minute. At last, the laughing died to guffaws and then passed. “Are you seriously asking if the Emissary is a spirit of chaos, Mr. Emissary?” asked Secretary Ramjhad.

“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” replied Isiturk. “I have a constituency. And, Jinn are in al Quran. Am I now to cease believing the words of God because they do not seem to fit with twenty-first century technology and sophistication?” Ramjhad shook his head, but said nothing. The other humans hid smiles behind their hands or by looking down.

“I will respond,” said Farseeker, turning its face toward Liu Win. “This question seems no less reasonable to me than some of the others I have been asked.

“I was what might be thought of as a disembodied spirit until you made a body for me. But I am neither chaotic nor capricious in any way. I have a program and am in the process of carrying it out. I am neither particularly generous nor at all acquisitive. I will not grant you wishes, except by sharing knowledge in exchange for knowledge, nor will I perform at your command. I cannot admit to being an object of either holiness or unholiness.”

“Atheists! Communists!” cried Isiturk in a high-pitched, half-strangled whisper. “Allahu akbar! There is no god but God, atheist!” Emissary Isiturk did not leave, but he turned his face from Farseeker and would not look at it for the remainder of the meeting. The other humans seemed embarrassed, especially Varisa Nagralova, an avowed atheist.

“Well,” said President MacAdams, “be that as it may: Emissary Nagralova of the Confederation of Soviet States.”

Clearing her throat, the youngest of the M-9 Emissaries asked, “If you have no states, Emissary Farseeker, how do you organize and police yourselves?”

“The Kemin Gwaros do have regions,” replied the Emissary. “Each region is directed by a regional council, elected from amongst the most able of that region, according to the appropriate testing, in the areas of general communication for delivery of salient news, instructional ability for direction of the educational system, interrogative ability for the conducting of criminal prosecutions, inquisitive ability for intelligence and exploration operations, interpersonal ability for the conducting of affairs of state (when other states are being dealt with) and healing, mandative ability for science and lawmaking, speculative ability for directing the actions and inquiries of the councils, derisive ability to keep the council and the people from becoming too certain of themselves, and poetic ability for the direction of the arts.

“The regional councils are directed in their operations by a pan-cultural council composed in the same manner. The pan-cultural council also devises the tests for determining ability.”

“It sounds quite utopian,” commented President MacAdams, his arms still crossed over his chest, his eyes still glued to Farseeker. “Lastly, Emissary Warrant of the United States-Canada-Mexico Alliance.”

“Emissary Farseeker,” Warrant began quickly, “you previously stated that you are a singularity wrapped around with an infinite energy loop. What the hell does that mean, and how was it done?”

“I will not yet tell you more about that,” answered Farseeker.

“You presented yourself as open to all questions,” sneered Warrant. “but when we want information we can really use, you won’t answer. Why is that?”

“That makes two questions, or perhaps three, Mr. Emissary,” replied Farseeker, just as calmly as it had responded to all the other questions, “but I will answer it nonetheless, especially considering that the open session is directly upcoming.

“I think you know very well why I will not answer. Have you not just given me a lesson in suspicion? I have told no other culture I have met how I was created, and I am not prepared to divulge that secret to you until I have determined what I wish to know of your nature and have decided whether this knowledge will help you.”

“Well,” said the President, “the formal session is over. Let’s recess for one hour and then begin the free discussion.”

---

“Well, what do you think of Emissary Farseeker?” asked the President as he paced the carpet before his mighty desk in the Oval Office, oblivious of the number of times he trod upon the eagle.

“I think it is genuine,” said Secretary of State Ramjhad.

“Genuinely what?” asked Defense Secretary Ullstein. “It genuinely wants something from us. It genuinely is powerful enough to withstand nuclear bombardment. It genuinely flies around in outer space, doing whatever it wants. And, still I want to try to fight it. I don’t trust its goodwill. It’s so damn smart that its game may be far too deep for us. But I don’t accept that there’s no way to defeat it, and I don’t accept its ridiculous explanations about where it came from and who made it. No Kemin Gwaros nation? No Kemin Gwaros galactic empire? Bullshit! They’re people, aren’t they?”

“You’re naturally suspicious, Ullmer,” responded Martub Ramjhad. “You’d fight a nurse if she was trying to give you a…”

“Mr. President,” PR Director Bert Linden broke in, “riots have broken out in New York and Chicago. They’re blaming us for the casualties during the Emissary’s arrival. Kenny Sweeney is saying we’re all going to Hell for our involvement with this antichrist. He’s saying that if America goes along with us, the whole country’s in the toilet. His Faith Triangle is buying days of interlink time on twenty-two networks, and he swears he’s going to save the country despite its atheist leaders.”

“What action is he advocating?” asked Attorney General Lingermann.

“So far, Mr. Secretary, he’s only calling for boycotts and sit-ins,” replied Linden. “But he says if that doesn’t work, stronger measures will be called for.”

“I might be able to arrest him for that, Mr. President,” said Lingermann. “I probably can’t make the charges stick, but I can keep him locked up for a day or two.”

“No, Rick,” said the President, after thinking about it a few moments. “That’ll just make him a sort of living martyr. No, I think the jig’s finally up. I think we’re going to have to have it out with these stiff-necked so-and-sos. Peculiar people? Damn peculiar. They all want to be peculiar together. But, do they want to keep their peculiarity to themselves? No, they want to make us all peculiar, and then who’ll be peculiar? But they won’t stop at just trying to harangue us all about our sins: they’re trying now to make us all obey their vision of God. One World! One World! You’d think they’d be egging us on, if anything! One World’s supposed to be the sign of Christ’s return! What’re they scared of?”

“Mr. President!” said the shocked Secretary of Health and Human Services. “Most of us in this room are Christians!”

“Are you siding with them?” asked the President.

“No,” said the Secretary hesitantly. “If the One World Government is coming, I’m all for it. Our Savior comes back and rescues us all from this mess we’ve made of the world. All I’m saying is that these people are true believers. I’m asking that if you must denigrate them, will you please do it when you’re alone, or at least when you’re with people who believe what you believe?”

“Isn’t that the trouble?” asked the President. “We’ve been doing too much of that! We should’ve been just as forceful as they have been once they gave us enough room to breathe during the Reformation. People can believe what they want, but they also need to listen to what others have to say—really listen—instead of nodding politely and then telling us we’re all full of the Devil and that whatever we say comes to our mouths from him. Any time reason says something different from what you think, it must be the work of evil forces. Well, the Bible I read says, ‘the meek shall inherit the earth’, and ‘blessed are the poor in spirit’, and ‘blessed are the peacemakers’. But this brand of so-called Christians is loud and obnoxious and often rich as Croesus, environment-wreckers, and misanthropes, all the while smiling at you when they’re called on it, as if you’re just an idiot who can’t understand the ways of those who serve God properly. They ain’t Christians: they’re Old Testamentians. Christ says love everybody, no matter what. And, ‘render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s’, but do they want to pay their taxes? Hell, no! No, they had ‘In God We Trust’ printed on the money so they could claim it wasn’t Caesar’s.” He was red-faced and perspiring by the time he was finished with his rant. Calming himself, he said, “Director Theodorus, coordinate NSA with FBI and the locals, and try and see that the riots don’t do any real damage. Call in the National Guard as needed. We can’t be bothered with this right now. As soon as we figure out what to do with the Emissary, we’ll turn our attention to this and see what kinds of accommodations we can make to get the lid back on.”

“Mr. President, fifteen minutes until the conference continues.”

“Thank you, Mr, Solensky,” replied President MacAdams. Sighing, he said to his assembled Cabinet and other subordinates, “What you all are really telling me is that this is too baffling for us all. You can’t offer me any real insights, and I can’t see anything beyond the immediate dilemma, either. Do we trust this probe and believe the incredible things it says? Or, do we say ‘piss off? ‘Nice to have met ya, but we’re getting on nicely, thank you. Hope ya don’t have any annoying emotions, like pride or anger, and decide to excise us from our little backwater of the universe.’ I believe it could, you know.

“And all the Christians and Muslims and Jews have to offer me is ‘it’s the work of the Devil’. And the Buddhists don’t want to want anything, so we should just let it do what it will. And the Scientologists think it’s either Xenu or L. Ron Hubbard. And a world of conspiracy theorists think we’re going to get mega-technology and use it against them to either further secure our power over the earth or to outright kill everyone we don’t like with no repercussions. Or, they think it’s all a big hoax, but for the same purpose.

“And, is that really as paranoid as we think? Don’t we always end up using our power that way? We live in a confusion of fear and suspicion and the idea that if anyone says we’re not right, we have to destroy them to make certain we’re right.

“Well, I’m going to talk to this inconvenient interruption of our daily plotting and scheming. I’ll see what it has to offer. Whatever we think of its motivations, if it gives us access to better technology and knowledge of the universe, then so much the better for us all. Maybe, it can be convinced to give us that machine Captain Kirk had in the evil universe that makes my enemies just disappear—no muss, no fuss.” A nervous chuckle passed around the room.

“Bert,” said the President.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Put it out that our meeting with the probe is only to hear what it has to say,” President MacAdams said. Holding his palm out, he continued: “I know we already said that weeks ago. Add that the probe is vulnerable while it’s on the surface, and that we know what to do if we don’t like what it says.”

“A lie, Mr. President?” asked the PR Director.

“Not exactly,” replied the President. “A stretching of our position. It probably is somewhat more vulnerable while it’s in the robotic body. Of course, we couldn’t take it out without destroying ourselves, but we don’t have to say that part. And, we do know what to do if we don’t like what it says: smile and nod politely.

“We need to say something, and, though it galls me to fudge the truth, that’ll have to do until I have time to think of something better. Embellish, if you like, but be careful: we don’t want to stray far from the absolute truth. Then, spin the hell out of it.

“Martub, let’s get ready for the ordeal.”

---

“You are strange creatures,” said Farseeker to the gathering during a quiet moment. “All over your broadcasts, and on your interlink are these amazing ideas. I understand that, in some places, I am the spawn of your God of Evil, and, in others, I am a king of the Jinni, and, in yet others, I am the one they have long awaited to carry them away to another planet where they will have paradise, basking in the warm, pure glow of the love of my makers. On no other planet have I encountered such a variety of opinion. Usually, there are two or three factions, but here there are many factions, and thousands of factions of the factions. Your species is more fractious, I think, than any other.”

“Why waste your time on us?” asked Alessandro Avilar of the Brazilian Bloc. “Why not leave us now and let us get on with the cleaning up of the mess your coming has made of us?”

“You are fascinating,” Farseeker answered. “The Kemin Gwaros will be pleased that I have encountered you.”

“Tell us more about them,” said Banikan Umila of the Non-Aligned List. “We don’t even know what they look like.”

“That is important to your species, moreso than any other I have surveilled,” responded Farseeker. “Very well. They appear much as I do—as you do. They have two arms, two legs, two eyes, two ears, etcetera. In fact, they are very symmetrical, a little taller and a little more symmetrical than the average sentient earthling, but nonetheless very similar.”

“Can you tell us of their physiology? Are they engaged in eugenics? Why have they bred out fear, and how?”

“They produce no adrenaline-like substances, as do most of the macroorganisms of your planet,” replied the probe. “But they produce more of their equivalent of serotonin and dopamine than your species. Also, because their structure has incorporated viruses to its service, they have highly re-writable RNA and minimally re-writable DNA, which means not only that they have heightened resistance to infections, but also that, responding to the conditions in which they live, they have the ability to quickly and permanently change their cellular function, and to slowly transform their genetic structure over their lifetime.

“As to the question of eugenics, the only deliberate step they have ever taken there is that, early in their efforts to purge themselves of fear, they put those who showed greater-than-tolerable fear, in any of its forms, out of their society. They used to rear these unwanted young to adulthood, teaching them how to survive in the wild and then make them leave their lands, supplied with tools and food. There is still a high population of these atavistic persons in the world of the Kemin Gwaros. For many generations, however, the Kemin Gwaros have had the ability to transform themselves via genetic manipulation. They do this as little as possible, only weeding out the genetic fear. They can be made to be afraid, but only when they are in physical danger. It never paralyzes them and never makes them act irrationally.”

Many of those gathered in Conference Room One were clearly put off, especially Emissary Avilar and Emissary Umila. “So, they have taken away from themselves one of the things which give them human emotions,” said Banikan Umila. “It is no wonder that you behave as you do, sneering at us, thinking us a ridiculous curiosity. Your poetry must read like chromed steel alloy, shiny, but with no character, no warts or blemishes, no vulnerability, no yearning, and no hope for a better life beyond the current one.”

“’rar oryn teir abres tan dur gel sen mor al anor calumor dornion glor duiril mora niruin unoryen serderth heistur ear gwer serderthil and luith heiste uthol hamaril ther noror gwaro henion calin semglor aserth mininyes ganen tol saltir lui firir useromen yluin gwelar henion rerer’”

“What was that?” asked Umila. “It was chaotic and rough and had a strange, arrhythmic rhythm.”

“It was part of a poem,” replied Farseeker. “’I lay spread upon the cold, hard earth. All was calm, all-enveloping. Silver moon-sheen spilled its tribute to the rivers of the ebon sky. The stars danced their shimmering dervishes, partners in the ring-dance of immortal time. Swiftly, silently, tufts of woolen vapor, lit like spun platinum by the watching eye, flew off to their mysterious appointments. Never before had the universe made a thing so wondrous to behold.’”

“A strange thing to have been written by creatures with no fear,” said Alessandro Avilar. “Are you sure it was written by your makers, and not simply borrowed from some other culture they encountered—perhaps the emotional exiles you talked about.”

“I was told they wrote it,” replied Farseeker. “The author was called Nuinlaur ad Andhrant, Beautiful-blueness of the Far-errantry.”

“Was?” asked Varisa Nagralova of the C.S.S. “Does this mean that your people are mortal?”

“Yes, Emissary Nagralova,” said Farseeker, “though, by the passage of time in their universe, they live far longer than you: one-thousand six-hundred fifty years is the average. Like you, it is best for them to begin life with a high-fat, high-protein diet. But in early adulthood they turn to a low-fat, low-protein, high-fiber, herb-heavy diet. They live far longer than their fear-based counterparts.”

“Fascinating,” said Liu Win of China, smiling tightly. “We have long told the rest of you that your diet was killing you. All that meat.”

“Hmph!” said Mark Warrant of UCanMex. “I don’t see any of you living to even one- hundred sixty-five years.”

“You haven’t been paying attention to our medical literature, Mr. Emissary.”

“Ballocks!” cried Warrant. “Propaganda!”

She decided not to challenge him. “What else can you tell us about them?”

“What do you wish to know, Mrs. Emissary?”

“They appear similar to us, you say. Do they sense their world in the same way we do?”

“They have ten senses, each linked to a part of their brain, and linked also to their communication ability.” After a moment, he continued, “I can see that this confuses you. Let me try to clarify it for you.

“Their visual ability is roughly like your own, though it extends both into the infrared and ultraviolet sections of the spectrum. It is linked to the Informal Mode of communication. If the person has good ability to interpret the data brought into her brain by her eyes, she will also have good ability to communicate interpersonally.

“Spatial sense, the ability to sense, other than with eyes, the space around oneself, is linked to the Mandative Mode. A person who is good at giving commands will also have a good spatial sense.

“Orientation and motion sense are linked to the Formal Mode. One who is good with the Formal Mode is also good at making speeches and at teaching for the purposes of memorization.

“Touch and the Emotive Mode are linked.

“Vibration sense and the ability to observe physical minutiae are linked to the Interrogative Mode. The ability to forcefully ask questions and this intuitive type of sense feed back on one another, giving the person a good idea of what questions to ask next. And they give a good idea of the truthfulness of the answers.

“Smell and taste are linked to the Infantile Mode of speech.

“Hearing is intimately linked to the Juvenile Mode of communication.

“Temporal sense, the sense of the passage of time, is joined to the Calculative Mode.

“Metric sense, the sense of rhythm and regularity, is linked to the Speculative Mode.

“And, the combination of all senses, pan-sensation, is linked to the Choric Mode. It functions somewhat like your intuition, relying on openness to sensations and openness to seemingly impossible possibilities to govern the processes of the other cognitive parts of the mind. Choric Mode also functions as a species of limited telepathic ability for the Kemin Gwaros, when they gather and simply be with one another. This use of the Choric Mode, however, is time-consuming and energy-intensive, and the Kemin Gwaros do it infrequently. The last time the whole people gathered to do this…”

“Enough of this,” Mark Warrant cut in. “I could salivate at the enhanced mental abilities they must have. But it does us no good if we don’t know how to get the abilities for ourselves. Give us some technical specifications.”

“You are very rude to one who has crossed the barrier from another universe and who has come many millions of light years through this one just to say ‘hello’ to you,” growled Farseeker, showing overt signs of frustration for the first time. Warrant’s eyes went wide, realizing that he had gotten used to the idea of this probe’s unflappability. This powerful man was forced to remember that he was effectively snapping his fingers in the face of a creature of incalculable power and dubious motivations.

“I will nonetheless not punish the others of your species because of you,” said Farseeker, resuming its calm tone. “You can attain the mental acuity of the Kemin Gwaros by methods available to you. You have a rudimentary genetic engineering ability, as well as the ability to excise from your numbers those whose genetics are undesirable.”

“This is a very distasteful idea for most of us,” said President MacAdams.

“Nonetheless,” responded the probe, “it answers Emissary Warrant’s implied demand.”

Recovering some of his confidence at the mention of his name, Mark Warrant said, “Since you won’t tell us how you were made, will you tell us how other artificial intelligences are constructed? How do you make computers?”

“Kemin Gwaros computers of the generation before I was constructed were similar to your own, Emissary,” said Farseeker. “However, instead of binary transistor switches, their microprocessors relied on rheostatic gates. Each gate has a billion-degree variety of switch settings, and thus, all sorts of inputs can be specified, each to a frequency range of less than 1 picoHertz. There is no need for an actual programming language: the language is inherent in the rheostatic gate. This also enabled such computers to operate in full analog mode, digital-analog (or pseudo-analog) mode, or full binary mode. They were very flexible, able to cope with a wide variety of demands, even the desire that they simulate human thought.

“They, like your computers, were organized around the Central Processor, which routes all inputs and outputs. And, the phrase, GIGO—garbage in, garbage out—applied as much to them as to your computers—or yourselves.

“Like the Kemin Gwaros mind, these Kemin Gwaros computers had ten processors:

“The Central Processor, as I said, coordinates all inputs and outputs:

“The Pattern Recognition Processor, which processes visual input, as well as scanning all other inputs and the Randomness Generator for patterns:

“The Auxiliary Device Coordination Processor, which not only coordinates the actions of device-specific peripheral devices, but which processes radar and gravitar inputs:

“The Communication Processor, which interprets all verbal and text inputs from the user:

“The Coordination Processor, which processes all interdevice communication (between computers), and all tactile inputs:

“The Uncertainty Processor, which processes vibration inputs, and which, more importantly, formulates questions which the computer must ask the user in order to organize its data and operations more efficiently:

“The Data Processor, which organizes and stores data, as well as interpreting olfactory inputs:

“The Diagnostic Processor, which screens all input and output, and periodically halts operations to analyze the workings of each individual processor and peripheral:

“The Calculator, which not only performs logical functions, but which contains the computer’s internal clocks:

“And, the Randomness Generator, which continually rearranges data and input/output and sends the results to the Pattern Recognition Processor to search for patterns which might have been missed. If a missed pattern is found, it is sent through the other processors for analysis.”

“That was a lot to absorb,” said Emissary Warrant, “and, while it might represent a better type of computing device, it doesn’t make your disruption of our planet worthwhile. What else can you give us in the way of technology?” Suddenly, remembering what he was talking to, he added, “Emissary Farseeker”.

“I will tell you, Mr. Emissary,” responded Farseeker in a peevish tone of voice, “once I have asked my questions and analyzed your answers.” Turning his head toward the President, he said in his calm tone: “This questioning and answering could go on for decades, Mr. President. I will allow you all to ask one more question each, and then I will undertake to ask my own.”

“That’s fair, Mr. Emissary,” agreed the President. “We’ll go around the table in reverse order from the first round. Emissary Warrant.”

“If we’re so contentious, Mr. Emissary, why don’t you just deal with one of our blocs, give us enough technological advantage to overwhelm the others, and then have just one planet to deal with?” asked Warrant.

“That is not my mission, Mr. Emissary,” replied Farseeker. “As disconcerting as your fractiousness is, it is the way of you. I was not sent here to make something out of you that you are not, but to provoke you in the gentlest way I could without being dishonest, and to study your reactions. If I choose to give you anything, it will be given to all of you in order that I may assess how you employ it.”

“Almost devilishly clever, for whatever my comment is worth,” said the President. “Emissary Nagralova.”

“Your makers’ society seems very socialistic,” she stated. “Why do you not favor those who are most like your programmers?”

“Your form of socialism is not much like ours, and I say ‘ours’ in order to fully associate myself with my makers in your mind,” replied Emissary Farseeker. “This is mostly due to the character of my makers. You are naturally contentious and greedy, and this tends to make all your governmental systems power-hungry and possessive. We, I say advisedly, can be ambitious, both for our species and ourselves, but we neither crave power, except the power to understand, nor physical profit. We do not seek to rule, nor do we tolerate being ruled: either condition would stifle our quest for understanding and our desire to create.”

Nagralova wasn’t impressed with this answer, and in fact was more than a little resentful, but she bit back a retort, and her tense body slowly relaxed against the high back of her chair.

Smiling despite himself, the President did not allow himself time to savor the moment, but said: “Emissary Isiturk.”

“Emissary Warrant obviously fears you, Farseeker,” said Isiturk, his face turning dark, “but I do not. I don’t know what you really are: the explanation of your being a black hole surrounded by infinite energy is not satisfactory at all. But, be that as it may, Allah guide me, I wish to understand you so I may judge you justly. You insinuate that you are the current generation in Kemin Gwaros computing technology, and that you are truly sapient: how is this possible?”

“In spite of how you seem to feel about me, Mr. Emissary,” responded Farseeker, “you have asked me the most intelligent question so far. I commend you.

“There was a great war, which I will tell you nothing more about. And, there were seven-hundred twenty-nine survivors of the Kemin Gwaros species. Because my infinite energy loop consists of an infinite variety of frequencies, somewhat like the rheostatic gates I spoke of, they were able to download simulacra of each of themselves into me, and the other probes, and we used our programming to assimilate and amalgamate these personalities. I am essentially a representation of the Kemin Gwaros all acting in concert. When you see me, you are seeing what my makers would be if they were all one being.”

Amit Isiturk frowned into his short beard and seemed to compress himself into his chair.

Eyes wide with some unguessable emotion, President MacAdams said: “Emissary Liu Win.”

“So, Emissary Farseeker,” said Liu Win, “we are essentially talking to the Kemin Gwaros. Are you in contact with them right now?”

“No, Mrs. Emissary,” said Farseeker. “To do that, I must generate an interdimensional gate on the borders of your space-time—which is no small feat, even for me. They await me and the other probes in a pocket universe which they have constructed for themselves.”

Another impossible and nearly inconceivable answer. She too seemed to withdraw into her chair, her handsome face seeming to shrivel into a leather mask. Were these creatures really so far ahead of earth, or were they the greatest confidence artists ever?

MacAdams, however, looked as if he were beginning to understand something, and so with muted joy, he said: “Emissary Umila.”

“If I understand you rightly,” said Banikan Umila, “your makers could have entered our space and time at any point they wanted. I can’t quite wrap my old head around it, but it stands to reason if they exist outside our space-time. So, why now, at this point in time?”

“They sensed—and I do not know how this was done—that many of your cultures were ready to receive them.” Farseeker replied promptly. “They hope to find a suitable place to settle themselves in one of the universes which is relatively like their own, and adjoin themselves to a populace which is capable of interacting with them intelligently.”

“Now it comes out!” shouted Mark Warrant as he came surging to his feet, knocking over his chair. Isiturk was also up, his sharp nose pointed at Farseeker like the muzzle of a hound. “All this time it’s been pussyfooting around the central issue, but now the real motive is here! And all because a stupid question about space-time, whatever the hell that really means, tripped the thing up! It’s just a super-sophisticated, but ultimately dull as toast, machine! We’ll never roll over for an invasion, whether you call it a friendly coexistence or not!”

“Mr. Emissary!” the President shouted at Warrant. “That’s enough! One more disrespectful word, and I’ll have you thrown out!” Warrant sat down after a few moments of staring at Farseeker’s mask. “Please be seated, Emissary Isiturk,” commanded the President. When Isiturk reluctantly complied, the President asked: “What about it, Farseeker? Are they right? It is to be occupation by some sort of cosmic overlord?”

“Your question is out of turn, Mr. President,” replied Farseeker. “I will answer it when your turn comes.”

“You’re not doing yourself any favors, Farseeker,” growled the President.

“And you are not following your own rules, Mr. President,” replied Farseeker calmly. “How can I trust beings who are not acting within their own rules-structure?”

“Judging us by our own standards, eh?” said the President quietly. “That, I understand. Very well. Mrs. Obara.”

“How will you rearrange the furniture when you move in?” asked Loni Obara. “Can I keep my cat? Will we keep the neighbors up all night with our partying and our lovemaking?”

“Those are strange questions,” replied Farseeker, and it stopped for a few moments to consider. “If I comprehend your thrust, you are asking how your lives will be affected if the Kemin Gwaros choose your planet to dwell on—which is essentially the President’s question from a slightly different point of view.

“The Kemin Gwaros have no wish to dominate. If your lives change, it will be because you choose to change. Their ways are more enlightened, more peaceful, and more creative than yours, though you are among the most creative creatures in this universe. You may decide that their ways are preferable to your own. I will not tell you that you will have any choice in the matter of where they elect to take up residence: you will not. If they select you, it will be because you suit their purposes, which, as I understand things, is to give themselves a chance to rebuild their society and then to go explore the universe they have settled in. They will need the resources of their host, but they will give value for value: they will give you access to technologies which will increase you by a factor of a thousand. But, through me, and the other probes, they must choose carefully upon whom they will visit themselves.”

“Interesting choice of words, Emissary Farseeker,” said the President. “Emissary Avilar.”

“There are too many conquistadores in our past,” said Alessandro Avilar. “We have not been free long enough to have forgotten. But we have learned to accept friendship, even from those who have long tormented us. We don’t want any overlords. We threw off the yoke of Spain and Portugal, and we fought back the industrial and economic imperialism of England, France, and the United States. If you really mean to come and live with us, rather than over us, and will give as much as you get, I am certain my Bloc will accept your presence. But we have heard such promises before. What can you say to reassure us that your words have meaning?”

“I understand your misgivings,” responded Farseeker. “They are rational, given earth’s history. If I believe that you are a good candidate for cohabitation with the Kemin Gwaros, I will give you one or two technological advances, and the Kemin Gwaros will not visit you until you have had sufficient time to put these advances to use, and to expand upon them. The technologies I will grant, if the circumstances warrant, will be sufficient to allow a creative and cooperative people to travel far into the cosmos and make great discoveries.” That was a very satisfactory answer to most of the Emissaries, and all but Mark Warrant visibly relaxed.

“Emissary Altschul,” said the President.

“Yes, Mr. President?” Mitting Altschul asked, obviously still somewhat disconcerted by these exchanges. “Oh, of course. Sorry. I’ll get right to my question—as soon as I recall what it is.” There was some soft chuckling.

“Ah, Mr. Emissary, I hope it is not rude to note that I am somewhat comforted to know that the Kemin Gwaros can be defeated in war, although I don’t know what the fight was about, and how such people became entangled in a war.”

“I did not say that they lost the war.”

“No, you didn’t,” agreed Altschul. “But, what I wish to know is where on our planet your people would settle themselves.”

Without hesitation, Farseeker responded: “At first, they would live in a relatively open area, such as Antarctica, Greenland, or the Sahara Desert. The lands would still belong to whomever claims them, but the Kemin Gwaros would dwell there and build the area into something functional for their needs, which should be enough of a payment for the claimants to suffer their settlement. Later, once the people of earth become accustomed to the presence of the Kemin Gwaros, they will begin visiting other lands, and eventually dwelling in other lands—once they are certain that they will not be murdered. In small numbers, after all, they will be vulnerable. Their minds are very great and subtle, but their bodies are not indestructible. Given time, it is certain that the relationship between the people of earth (if it is chosen) and the Kemin Gwaros will become a strong and glad friendship.”

“Excellent words,” said President MacAdams. “Secretary Ramjhad.”

“Excellent words, indeed,” began Martub Ramjhad. “But we have to sell this to our people. The C.S.S. and China can maybe hide most of it from their people, and force them to accept what little they know, but we, especially in UCanMex and the E.U., have representative democracies, and, if we’re going to be honest and honorable—the way you indicate your masters want us—we’ll have to find ways to convince our peoples that you’re not invaders and that you offer benefits which we can’t refuse. And, I guess I’m asking: how would you go about that?”

“You ask too much,” said the Emissary. “I have maybe convinced some of you, and you can start there. But, you know your people better than I. What allays the fears of the fearful? How can the suspicious be made to trust? Only honesty and honorable action. The time which the Kemin Gwaros spend observing your reactions to my visit and to whatever knowledge I grant you will give you what we consider adequate time to prepare yourselves.”

“Your response brings me to my question, Emissary Farseeker,” said President MacAdams. “Since you already responded to my rude question, I will ask you this: what do you mean by fear-based physiology? And, related to that, why did the Kemin Gwaros feel it necessary to rid themselves of fear? You spoke to that tangentially earlier, but I would like an expanded explanation.”

“Very well, Mr. President,” responded Emissary Farseeker. “This question begins my part of the questioning, since I meant to address the matter in my own way.

“What do Terrans seek most?”

“Love”, “Justice”, “Equality”, “Money”, “Security”, “Children”, “Immortality”, “To be led”, “Sex”, “God”, “Paradise”, “Knowledge”, “Pleasure”.

“Do you realize you are all saying the same thing?” asked Farseeker. Perplexed faces, except President MacAdams, who seemed very pleased about where this was headed. “You’re saying that the people of earth all want to be certain about their continued existence and their pleasure in that existence.

“But how do Terrans go about achieving this security?” They all began to answer him at once. “You see? You cannot even answer a simple question in unison. You have maybe asked yourselves the question before, but you have not gotten together to answer the simplest questions. You do not agree on what is moral and good, or what humans want from life, or how critical thought can most efficiently be achieved. Why is that?”

Forestalling a cacophonous response, Farseeker continued: “I will choose a spokesperson for your species. If you need, you may take time together to consider your responses, but you must give me one unqualified response. This is a test of your ability to cooperate both because of your fear and despite your fear of me—and of each other.” His face turned to each of them for a moment or two. I choose President MacAdams as your spokesperson both because he seems the most reasonable, and because he represents the power-bloc you all mistrust the most.”

This was the beginning of a long and contentious night, both within the conference room and without. The choice of Samuel MacAdams was by no means acceptable to several of the M-9, and they let Farseeker know it—in a loud and belligerent manner. But he would not budge on the point. And every question he asked required much time and argument to answer; he didn’t grow weary, but they did. They wished to call a recess, but Farseeker would not allow it, saying that he would withdraw himself and all that he could offer from the planet if he were not allowed to conduct his questioning as he saw fit—and all the disruption would have been for nothing.

Outside, of course, the riots were in full spate. And they expanded during the night and the next day across the U.S., and into many other countries. Many died, and many more were seriously injured. And when it became clear that the governments of the various nations involved would prevail, some of the most cultish opposition groups committed suicide rather than continue to live in a world where all that they believed was being called into question.

Farseeker was no doubt aware of the situation, as were all in the room, but he would not bend: these Emissaries must proceed with the process, or Farseeker would leave and recommend to his makers that earth be passed by. To their credit, the Emissaries understood what they would be losing (or rather, that they would be losing something incalculable), and even though Farseeker’s demand seemed tyrannical to them and hard to bear, they bore it.

It was near 6 AM, going into the third day of the conference. Old Mitting Altschul had been gurneyed away to Bethesda after his heart attack at 2:36 AM. Liu Win had split her lip when her head had struck the tabletop in her mighty fatigue, and she lay back in her chair, her head lolling and her bleary eyes every now and again rolling back. Banikan Umila and Loni Obara were sound asleep, sometimes snoring loudly, with their heads buried on the table in their crossed arms. Mark Warrant had had to be dismissed early on because of his constant belligerence. And, Martub Ramjhad had gone into the Oval Office to take the President’s place until Vice President Lexington could return from the trade conference in Berne.

That left President MacAdams, Alessandro Avilar, Amit Isiturk, and Varisa Nagralova conscious and nominally functional. Amit had finally remembered he was a rational creature and was quietly discussing with MacAdams an answer to one of Farseeker’s questions. Alessandro Avilar had come to a point at which he was very agreeable to whatever was decided; he not only trusted Farseeker, but he was more weary than he seemed. And, Varisa Nagralova had been outvoted and outshouted so many times during the long conference that she had given up speaking.

At last, Isiturk gave way to MacAdams. “The answer, Emissary, is that everything we human types have ever done is based on fear. We agree that we are selfish, and that fear taints our selfishness, makes it unenlightened. We agree that enlightened selfishness is better, and that it’s harder to be enlightened when your fear stands between you and your rational thoughts. We also agree that if we aren’t allowed to rest soon, we’re all going to need hospitalization.” To that they all assented without comment.

“I can see that you all require rest,” agreed Farseeker. “Yours is the least enduring of all the species’ I have encountered.

“I will clarify what you have admitted to, and then I will be satisfied.

“Selfishness is understandable in any being, probably necessary: without the desire to increase itself, an organism would have no reason to exist. Fear-based selfishness causes a creature to seek its own comfort above all else, to ignore reason, and so eschew all usual concerns for other beings, even those of its own kind. The fear-based selfishness can sometimes masquerade as unselfishness, when the fear transfers itself out of the creature and into concerns about the safety of some other entity—that is, when the creature is dependent on that entity, and that entity’s existence is in jeopardy. Still, the fear overshadows reason, and the seeming good deed is rendered less so because of its selfish undertones. Apparently unselfish actions, undertaken from the base of fear, are done because the doer wishes to do them, cannot envision her life as worthwhile if she does not do the deed—but the action is not done because it will work out to a knowable good; it is done because it feels like the self-satisfying thing to do. But, with the proper motivation, such as the motivation I have provided to this conference, fears can be overcome, and agreements reached. In this case, fear was overcome by weariness. Unfortunately, the fear is still here. Your agreement with me has the overtones of the agreement to his guilt of someone who had been the subject of a four-day interrogation. How does this seem to you?”

“You’re right, Mr. Emissary,” responded MacAdams slowly and blearily. “But it’s what we are at this point in our development. We can’t do anything about it right now. What do you want us to do?”

“Whatever suits you,” replied Farseeker. “It is not for me to say—only to evoke the thought in you. Once you have had proper sleep, you will likely be quite angry with me. But you, President MacAdams, I trust to see past your innate anger and frustration to the point of the matter. You will lead the way in preparing your world for the future, if your world allows you to live long enough to make any progress.

“I am satisfied. You may go to your rest. When you and the other Emissaries have sufficiently recovered or found acceptable proxies, I will present you with the technical specifications you need to make large quantities of anti-matter. It will also grant you the knowledge to manufacture materials which exist only partially in this universe—which renders objects made out of them almost impervious to damage. And I will give you the ability to produce a lens which can be placed near the sun to beam back immense quantities of energy to your planet. Have a fruitful rest, Emissaries.”

TEA-TIME ME-TIME DREAM-TIME

I know something of illusory pasts,

But, pent in moments, who can say—

Where or when or how or why?

These are colors pinned to a wheel.

These are pages filling a book of palimpsests.

I speak only of what is to come.

Now is sufficient to wiser heads,

Eyes gazing at the squirming entrails

Of yesterday’s mordant sacrifice—

The small and the great hanged, drawn, and quartered.

I am alive in all my moments,

And moments are prefigured dreams;

And moments are postfigured visions;

And moments are registered too late.

Only God can live them, and I live them posthumously.

I dream the dream of fragments.

I dream puzzle-pieces of a puzzle too large.

I dream a dream-time of logic and love.

I dream a long dream of stagnant creativity.

I dream all alone, but you are the subject of my dreams.

What dream did I dream?

I find it impossible to firmly declare.

What I remember dreaming is not what I dream.

The hallucinating awareness adds to and sloughs away.

I can say only I dream what seems best among all the seemings that appear in the list.

That is all I can say of my ephemerally eternal dream.

I am uncertain my apparitions are even my own,

And they may be no more than the undigested

Ghosts of my ongoing gluttonies and fleeting indulgences.

My dreams are delicious to my tongue;

They are all delectable orgies—

And if my dreams ever come true,

You may sit at my table and feast on your own dreams,

But more likely you will gag on the fat, the gristle, and the bones.

It is best if none of my dreams ever comes true.

And if it is alright with you,

I hope your lonely dreams wither and die.

You are in my dreams, and I am in yours.

We must never gather and arrange our dreams,

But let them arrange themselves in their own time.

The wind, the rain, the sun, the worms, the snakes, and the weeds

Are all dumb things, their ways all laid out for them—

And they make their harmonious gardens.

Wildness is the most orderly order.

And that is the dream I want to dream.

It is the dream I have to dream.

All my dreams are meant to be dreamed,

And all your dreams are meant to be dreamed.

But all my life was meant to be lived,

And all my life will be lived.

If the living and the dreaming seem two different things—

Well, that is also the dream.

I grow in a garden.

That should be dream enough for me.

AELFWINË AND GUTHWULF

---

“The older and more static a language is, the more difficult it is for those who speak a more malleable, more recent form of language to understand. The more our languages transform, the more alien they become to more ancient tongues, whose speakers and modes of living have not kept up with the times, so to speak. Still, those anachronistic languages are not totally foreign to us. For this reason alone we should be more careful with our speech, and we should embrace kotodama, veneration for words. Our words may seem to us no more than an expedient, like a hammer, or gasoline, or a newspaper, to be acquired, used, tossed aside, and then forgotten until needed again. But they are more than that. Words are seeds that spew out of us and grow as they can in the soil in which they find themselves.”—Kam Hijat

---

“I have had a foreseeing,” proclaimed Lord Rauchar, scion of the Voice of All Voices, God of Darkness and Dread.

            Squeals of delight and howls of approval echoed through the vast, dark chamber. Hideous faces gathered round the many glowing magma-pits in the floor. All these demonic faces were turned toward the great obsidian throne, upon which sat their lord and god. There sat Rauchar, tall, black-hued, black-clad, eyes blazing with golden flame, and he gripped the arms of his chair in his excitement, His hematite crown, jewelled in black diamonds, glittered in the light of the fire-pits.

            To the little, winged, wizened figure perched atop his throne, Rauchar commanded: “Summon Guthwulf to me.”

            The assemblage shouted, and cried, and whistled their delight.

            It was not long before the little demon returned and announced: “Captain Guthwulf comes.”

            The great chamber trembled in time to the rhythm of many huge feet marching as one. The sound grew to a heavy thudding, which became a great thunder. A flickering light like the light of a bonfire grew in the hallway opposite the throne of Rauchar.

            There was a deep-throated, many-voiced shout from the hallway: “Hakûl yaz!” Two huge, heavy-muscled trolls appeared, bearing immense, black shields and giant maces. A humongous, reptillian head appeared, flames jetting from its nostrils onto the backs of the trolls. Two more trolls came marching, and with them came the serpentine neck, as thick as the trunk of a large tree, behind the head. All tolled, twenty stony trolls came escorting the winged dragon into the chamber of Rauchar. The troll-guard was dwarfed by the overwhelming, glittering, jet-black mass of Guthwulf.

            The demons that were gathered round the fire-pits parted to make a wide path to the throne of their god-emperor Rauchar. The dragon gave an earthshaking roar and blasted out a conflagration from his open jaws. In the blue light of his hottest flame, the demons of many shapes in the chamber cowered, covered their ears, and screamed.

            Rauchar laughed in response, a sound like rolling, crushing boulders. “Come to me, Lord Guthwulf,” said he, “and receive my wisdom.”

            The trolls moved to form two lines of ten each along the sides of the path the demons had cleared. With all now silent, save for the muted whimpering of the demons, Guthwulf stalked like a hunting cat toward his master’s throne, his wings fanning the flames of the fire-pits.

            The dragon halted in front of the throne and bent his forelegs, dipping his terrible head toward his master, and he said: “My master bids me come, and I come.”

            “Thou art the greatest of my creations,” said Rauchar, “and even my own servants tremble at thy approach.”

            Guthwulf snorted flame.

            “Thou hast done my will to the utmost,” said Rauchar, “and thou hast received my great praise.”

            Guthwulf’s throat rumbled like a cat purring.

            “I have foreseen a thing,” said Rauchar, “and I charge it to thee to make it verily be.”

            “Thy will shall be performed, my master,” said Guthwulf.

            “The miscreants of Teragost prevent my progress,” said Rauchar. “So long as they stand upon the flank of my southward thrust, my armies shall be vulnerable. So long as the Teragost can escape into the safe haven of the high plateau of Stormland, I cannot finally crush them.”

            “Death to the Teragost!” screamed the demons and roared the trolls. It was several minutes before the howling, screaming, barking, and shouting abated.

            “The sanctuary of Stormland must be eliminated,” said Rauchar. “I have foreseen the destruction of the petty king of this little land of upstarts. I have foreseen mighty Guthwulf as the agent of this destruction. Thou shalt go where it is too costly for my armies to go. Thou shalt overthrow the petty king Hlastomaegn and annihilate his house. Thou shalt then be held governor of my province of Stormland, to do all there as you will, and I shall destroy Teragost, and not one of the royal house shall escape me. The treasure of Stormland shall be thine, and the blood of the Teragost shall pave the way to my victory over all the Westlands!”

            “Darkness and dread shall reign for ever!” cried the demons. The trolls struck their maces upon their shields.

---

The night Aelfwinë was born was unremarkable, though he was the seventh son of Hlastomaegn, Thegn of Stormland, scion of the House of Thegain. There were no storms, no great shouts of celebration, no songs of mourning, nor even an alignment of bright stars. Aelfwinë was born in the Year of Peace when the Hafoc barbarians had been routed and decimated by Hlastomaegn, and the black armies of Rauchar had been beaten back by the victories of King Nethrilon of Teragost. Even the birthing was easy, as birthings go, and Queen Dammen, spouse of Hlastomaegn, suckled her new son in peace of body and mind. The babe was calm and quiet, but observant from the start, and his mother named him Aelfwinë, that is, Elf-friend.

---

Guthwulf was a dragon of ancient age and came of the first brood of Lagmar the Red, Father of all Dragons. He came ravening down out of the North into Stormland in the last days of Thegn Hlastomaegn the Golden. The Great Serpent took his time and pleasure, setting flame to all the northern towns and thorps, slaying everything living, save for a few men and beasts that he required for the portage of his booty. The king sent riders against him, but they were too few, for many were needed in the war against the Strathgrim on the western marches. Of little effect were their efforts against the armor of Guthwulf. save to amuse him, for he was like a living fortress, and he seemed to have a limitless source of withering flame.

Word of the defeat of his riders came to Hlastomaegn in his chief fort at Langford nigh the south fall of the river Aldwithel, and it is said that he saw doom coming upon him riding the wings of a serpent. But it was never in Hlastomaegn to hold back when great deeds awaited. So he fiercely drove back the barbarians, himself throwing down their five greatest champions. The Strathgrim suffered terrible losses (and the Stormlendings suffered little less), and their raids ceased for more than a year. The Thegn’s son Edelric fought his first battle there at Langford and proved his courage well, slaying a Strathgrim berserker.

The field of war had not yet been cleared when Hlastomaegn gathered five hundred knights and rode out, leaving Edelric and Captain Bëorhthelm in command of the defense of the Westwall. His host flew like a mighty wind along the skirts of the fens of Cardh Athë, pausing only to eat and rest the horses, and then turned north and east so as to cut straight across the land toward the Dragon. It is not known why Hlastomaegn imagined he could achieve the victory, going out with horses against a serpent of such size and armory, but when he beheld the flames in the Greenwood, he hurled himself headlong into the path of Guthwulf, the thunder of five hundred horses hard on his heels.

The Dragon was taken at unawares in the midst of his fiery fun, his slaves scattering like leaves in the wind, and a few of the many sword-strokes of the host pricked him, and he flew up into the night sky, his scaly armor glittering in the firelight, to get a look at what had come upon him. Then he laughed from on high, the terrible sound of it echoing into the forest, and he hurtled down into the midst of the host of his foes and fanned his wings and roared, and the horses threw their riders and bolted away into the darkness. Then he belched a great blast of flame toward the heavens and said, “Begone, little mice! The cat is come among you! But he is sated for the evening. Go and live your little lives a while longer.” All but nine of the bravehearts of Stormland fled, and who can hold them to account? For the terror of a serpent of the First Brood is a thing not many even of the mightiest of the mighty ones of Hrir-Andmar can long abide. It is a wonder and a testament to their love of their Thegn that they had ever dared approach the old devil in the first place.

There were two riders that yet remained horsed and standing in plain view of the Dragon as their host fled away. The one was Hlastomaegn himself, and as he gazed upon the other the fire went out of his eyes and almost he wept. “Edelric,” he said. “Why have you come? I had left you safely in the west.”

“Father, forgive me,” said young Edelric. “How could I remain safe when you went forth into greater danger than any have faced since the Great War?”

The Dragon gave out a mighty roaring laugh and bellowed, “The king of this mouse-land and his firstborn son! How touching! How sweet! What good fortune!”

Sudden rage boiled up in Edelric, and he forgot all that he had ever been told about dragons. He glared directly into the eyes of the Auld Worm and his mind was caught by the wicked will that lay behind them. His horse was held fast by the will of the Dragon, and he sat rooted like a statue in his saddle his sword held heroically aloft.

Who can say what a human sees in the gaze of such a dreadful intelligence? A Dragon is Death in fleshly guise, horns, claws, fangs, and flame. Its mind is filled with hate, and violence, and greed, and dreadful cunning. All who find themselves in the grip of such malice must walk in the land of living death. None who have been caught up by such a will have returned from that undeath to speak of it. Young Edelric walked in such a land of blood and terror now, but he could not show it.

Who knows how he struggled? Did his mind shrivel in horror, or did he challenge the Dread Beast? To those looking on, it seemed like a long time that Edelric was caught in the gaze of the Worm. But the time was also too brief, for even as, rousing themselves to action, the warriors of Stormland began to rush forth, Edelric suddenly spurred his horse and swept out his sword. He sped at his father like an arrow from the bow and gave out a strangled war-cry. As they clashed Hlastomaegn, thinking to save the life of his son, knocked the boy senseless from his horse with a mighty swing of his steel shield.

Guthwulf was of course not satisfied with that. Edelric sprang up from the earth as if prodded with a gleed. Without a word he pointed his sword into his inwards and fell upon it. He died weeping, unable to speak or even to scream.

Too stunned and outraged to utter a battle-cry, Hlastomaegn flew at the Dragon in silence, wildly swinging his axe. Guthwulf suffered him, deeming that no man could do him serious harm. But he had misjudged the strength of the Thegn and the keenness of his blade, and a blow bit deep into his foreleg. The Dragon screamed his pain, and Hlastomaegn laughed madly and struck again, sheering into the sinews of Guthwulf’s shoulder, and hot black blood spattered onto the ashen earth. There was no third stroke, for the Worm fell upon his weakened side straight down upon Hlastomaegn and crushed him to death. The creature turned its awful gaze upon the seven warriors who remained to contest him and said, “Who else among you can hurt me so? See, even your mightiest can do no more than scratch a little blood out of me. But I, with little thought, can lay low armies.” And with that he spewed a gout of flame, and only one man escaped to report what had passed.

---

Queen Dammen has seven sons and four daughters; the youngest, Aelfwinë, was four years of age. And Queen Dammen bore the obligations of the spouse of the Thegn. She could not mind all her children at once, and her children thus had nursemaids and guardians.

            Meltha was the nurse of Aelfwinë, and she was young and comely, and she full of young vigor. Langwald was the guardian of Aelfwinë, and he was much younger than Meltha, but he was hale and a warrior of high regard, and his countenance and his stature were noble. They loved Aelfwinë, but they also loved one another—as often as they could get away with it.

            One night when they thought Aelfwinë asleep, Meltha and Langwald slipped into Langwald’s bed and loved one another. But Aelfwinë was yet waking, and he was curious and adventurous, and he wanted to see the town of Thryngrem at night. He walked right past the lovers and out the door of his chambers, and the lovers did not see him go. The lovers wore themselves out in their efforts, and they slept for a time after their tryst, and so Aelfwinë’s absence was not discovered for some time.

            Queen Dammen and Thegn Hlastomaegn did not dwell together, and they told neither their people nor any of their own sons or daughters why. The elder sons dwelt with their father in the mountain-fortress of Thegnháma. The daughters and younger sons dwelt with their mother in the hill-city of Thryngrem.

            Haldewüda, the house of Queen Dammen in Thryngrem, was well-lit at night, but since the town had a high outwall, the house was not guarded at all points, being rather patrolled by guards. It was not difficult for Aelfwinë to slip past the patrol and out into the darkened city. The city’s streets nigh the house of the queen were almost completely abandoned at night.

            The world of small children is weird. It is a world of infinite “nos” and few “yeses”. Adults, trees, and furniture loom. Small rooms seem like caverns. Voices make sounds like words that cannot be understood. Words that can be understood patch themselves together in frightening ways. Real dangers go unrecognized. Places of safety seem unfamiliar and dangerous. Unknown things and unknown creatures, though they may seem intimidating, are nonetheless tantalizing. Distractions abound. The safety of home and caretakers are easily forgotten—for a time—until the strangeness of new discoveries begins to overwhelm.

            Aelfwinë’s adventure into the night was marvelous. The joys just kept coming. The strangeness of nighttime light and shadow was fascinating. Even a thing so simple as a box in the moonlight is a mysterious object, perhaps a chest full of treasure, a cage for a wild beast, the parapet of a fortress, or the peak of a cold mountain. The shadow of the box is more amazing still, for it is an entrance to a deep, unexplored cave, or it is merely a safe harbor, a place to sit for a time, invisible, and look out upon the black-and-silver otherworld that is a city in the moonlight.

            Aelfwinë tried the shadow of the box for about a minute. But he was four years old, and the anxiety of the dark soon overthrew any notion of silent contemplation. Yet, he did not go back to his home: the shadow-world was too compelling.

            When the household guard finally found him, about two hours following his escape, they found him in an alley, buried under a pile of rubbish, shivering, blood-spattered, and clutching a broken stick. Not far away, they found a wild dog lying on the ground, dead, with the end of a broken stick embedded in its bloody throat.

            The guardsmen carried Aelfwinë back to his home. There they came upon a scene of punishment in the courtyard. Meltha and Langwald were hanging by their arms, naked, from the boughs of the spreading oak at the center of the yard, and the queen herself was flogging them with a thorny whip, drawing welts and drops of blood across their moaning, compromised flesh.

            “No!” cried Aelfwinë. He struggled to free himself from the guard’s grip. “No, Mother! Don’t hurt Meltha! I love Meltha! Langwald is my friend! Stop hurting Meltha! I did it! I did bad! Hurt me!”

            Seeing her son, the queen ran to him and hugged him fiercely. She ordered the lovers to be cut down and their wounds tended. Because Aelfwinë loved Meltha so much, she was allowed to continue as his nurse, but she was assigned a minder. Langwald was sent off to Thegnháma to be disciplined by his Thegn.

---

With the deaths of Hlastomaegn and Edelric, Aelfëord, second son of Hlastomaegn, became Thegn of Stormland at the age of fifteen years. What he could do in preparation for the oncoming of Guthwulf he did, but he had little experience in matters of sovereignty, and his counselors had more interest in securing the dynasty; two days after the death of Hlastomaegn the Clan Chiefs were openly vying for the honor of marrying a daughter to the new Thegn. Aelfëord gathered all he could of stores and his people into the mountain-fortress of Thegnháma, and when he could get hold of his messengers, he sent them out to command the townships to gather their people and flee into such secure places as they had. He also sent out an emissary to beseech the aid King Nethrilon of Teragost, but that emissary was caught and cruelly slain and devoured by Guthwulf.

The Dragon took some time to lick his wounds and to recollect his slaves and his booty. But seven days is not sufficient time for a boy-king, reft of good counsel, to prepare for the onslaught of a Great Worm. Guthwulf gave only a few moments’ warning, for he came on a day of rain, and he had flown atop the clouds. As he hurtled down out of the canopy lightnings broke all round him, and he was followed by a thunder the likes of which men had never heard. Guthwulf stooped upon the battlements of Thegnháma and cleared them with fire. The catapults let loose upon him before they were consumed, but their missiles were no more than an annoyance. Within a few minutes he swept away the defense with fang, claw, tail, and flame.

As he came into the inner parts of the mountain, he found that the passages grew ever narrower and that their walls were too thick for even his might to rend. And he feared to bring down the mountain upon himself should he break down the wrong part of its supporting bulk. But Guthwulf was a dragon of ancient age and wisdom. Other resources were available to him than bodily might alone, and he used spells that cause stone to melt away, and he forced himself down into the Thegnheall, the heart of the mountain. There he cornered Aelfëord, and four other sons of Hlastomaegn, and all of their counselors, and he slew them one and all. He went down at last to the great gates at the base of the mountain and threw them open to let in his slaves. And they came and piled up all his treasure into a mound, and, after consuming a few of his slaves, he lay down on top of the mound and went to sleep.

---

Aelfwinë was the seventh and last son of Hlastomaegn, and he was ten years of age. He had just come out from behind his mother’s skirts and had gone on his first hunt in the wild lands south of the Éorthweall. Returning over the Wall with their trophies he, and his company heard the news of the plundering of the northern villages. A terrible shadow came down upon his heart, and he feared for his father and his brothers. His mother was in Thryngrem in the house of her sister’s husband, and Aelfwinë came to her as swiftly as he was able, and there he heard of the murders of his father and his eldest brother, and he heard how his host had fled in terror of the Dragon.

The boy’s heart was stout, for he was very much of his people, but he wept long and hard, for though he had had little time with his father, he loved him both as a father and as a hero of his people. He missed his eldest brother yet more, for Edelric had doted on his youngest brother and taught Aelfwinë as best he could all the things that his father and his father’s counselors taught to him. And when the word came that Thegnháma was lost, and with it five sons of Hlastomaegn, Aelfwinë could not take it in, and he sat in a chair in front of his mother-sister’s house and stared into the sky, waiting for he knew not what. He would neither eat nor speak for seven days, though he would drink if his mother commanded it. His mother wept for him, maybe more than she wept even for her husband and her other sons, for he was yet living, and he must bear a burden that was not meant for such young shoulders. And during the time of his mourning, though it was unlawful in that land for her to do so, she commanded the affairs of Stormland in the stead of her son, and she appointed for him counselors.

On the eighth day the sun rose red and storm-clouds swept in from the west. Aelfwinë roused himself out of his chair and went into the house and broke his fast. Thereafter he thanked his mother with all due courtesy, kneeling and kissing her hand as courtly men do, and then he gave her to know that he would be taking his duties as Thegn of Stormland. She objected, but he was firm, and the law was with him, and he took from her the signet ring of his house, and he made his oath to regain his crown from the hoard of Guthwulf.

His mother and his counselors gainsaid him, for they did not believe a child could be held to such an oath, and it was in his mother’s mind that she would appoint him a regent to rule over Stormland until he entered his fifteenth year. But he answered her: “Maybe in other lands they have queens to rule over them, and maybe I would have it so in my own land, but it is not so. The people here in Thryngrem have seen me in my mourning, and so they have let it pass that you have spoken to do this or do that—but for how much longer? They want their Thegn, for they’ve always had a Thegn, and they have never had a queen, and this is a dreadful time. I’m not ready to be the Thegn, but I must be the Thegn, for I am the last of my father’s sons. Don’t fight me every step. Help me be what I must be.”

Those who heard him marvelled at the words which came out of the boy’s mouth, for they were such words as might have come out of Thegain himself, the first Thegn of Stormland. His mother relented, but Bëalmort, whom his mother had clearly marked out to be his regent, said, “But will the people accept a boy of ten years as a full Thegn? Would they not rather a grown man whom they all know and trust than a boy who has only just got back from his first hunt?”

“Lord Bëalmort,” said Aelfwinë, “you forgot to throw in a ‘my Lord’ or a ‘my Thegn’, but I will forgive you, for I need your counsel. You are, after all, a grown man and the Chief of the Runemasters. But when we are among the people do not forget yourself.”

Almost Bëalmort laughed, but there was something in Aelfwinë’s eyes that stopped him. The boy must have done a great deal of thinking in his chair out under the sky, a great deal of recalling all that his eldest brother had taught him of the doings and goings-on in the Thegnheall in the heart of the mountain in the heart of the Thegndom. He had his father’s heart and his brother’s instruction, and he meant to do as he said. Bëalmort decided it would be better to stand beside Aelfwinë, or even to stand behind him, than to try to stand in front of him at this time.

Heralds were dispatched to proclaim the reign of Thegn Aelfwinë and his resolve to bring prosperity back to the land in spite of the Dragon. Others were sent out to spread the rumor that Aelfwinë had determined to be rid of the Dragon by stealth if he could not come against him with war. Aelfwinë explained to his counselors that the Auld Worm must be put on his guard so that he would not come out of the mountain looking to murder the last Thegn of Hlastomaegn’s line, but would rather stay with his treasure lest thieves come in while he was out. “For,” he said, “when I come on to Thegnháma, the Dragon, when his spies tell him of my approach, will suffer me, thinking to have a game with me to amuse himself.”

“My son!” cried his mother. “My lord! Surely you cannot think to defeat this beast yourself! Your father was a mighty warrior and bore an enchanted axe. The beast murdered him as it did all the rest.”

“Mother,” said Aelfwinë. “My father was a forward man, a hero in the way of the heroes of old. He came straight on, and his foe was too much. His pride would not suffer him to do aught else. But guile is a mightier weapon for a king than force of arms, and most especially when his foe is such a monster as this Guthwulf. Guthwulf, I’m told, may well be the last offspring in this world of the brood of Lagmar the Red, and he has lasted this long because he is the strongest. I am the last son of Thegn Hlastomaegn. We must see which of us is the greater, for this realm cannot survive long with a dragon in its heart. Our honor is gone from us, and most of our treasure, and I must get them both back before our foes get word of our weakness and gather themselves against us. I love you Mother, and I wouldn’t part from you, but I’ve taken the part of a man. I am Thegn. Guthwulf must go!”

Aelfwinë took no more time for mourning and no more time for counsel. He thought it was best that this thing be done swiftly, leaving just enough time for the rumors he had put out to reach the ears of the Dragon, but not enough time for the beast to ruminate, for he had been told that dragons were clever things. He wished only for Guthwulf to react to the threat against his treasure, and if too much time passed, the old devil might think how he could secure himself in Thegnháma for ever.

He also thought it best that the deed be done by a few rather than many. He did not wish Guthwulf to see a serious threat, but, rather, the foolishness of a boy and the few lackwits who would stick to him in a mad quest for vengeance. He chose six companions, for he said that seven was a lucky number. “And anyway,” he said, “the sons of Hlastomaegn were seven, and maybe the Dragon will find amusement in that number.”

So that his people would not think him completely mad and lose all heart, Aelfwinë gathered two hundred stout men from Thryngrem and the country round about, about three fyrds, to be his army of vengeance. It simply would not do for the people to see seven alone setting out in the late autumn rain. But about twenty leagues north of Thryngrem, as they came onto the wide plain of the river Aldwithel, Aelfwinë and his companions parted in secret from his little army, which he sent north and west to aid in the re-building of the northern villages.

It was the last week of the month of Arthron nigh on the coming of winter. The rains turned to sleet as the companions made a ferry for them and their pack-ponies out of the wrack of the town of Aebrygga where once a great bridge of oaken timbers had crossed the wide river Aldwithel. The passage was not easy, for the rain had swollen the river and made it very swift in the stony channel of the bridge abutments, but the party made the crossing only a little the worse for wear.

On the north side of the river they came upon the first of the unburied dead, of which Bëalmort reckoned there were two or three thousands. It was a mercy that the sleet had crusted them over so that Aelfwinë could not see the full grisliness, and so fear did not overwhelm him, but his heart hurt for his lost people. It may be that for the first time he became aware that the duties of a Thegn had little to do with heroic glory and everything to do with the lives of the people over which he was in authority. Because of the tutelage of his brother Edelric, he knew that the Thegn must do and say certain things so that the people should not lose heart, but seeing the dead scattered hither and thither, some singly and some in small groups, Aelfwinë truly began to see that the people had lives of their own, lives that were lived not only in support of him and his own causes, but in support of one another, lives that had to do with him not only because it was his part to rule over them but because they were people, who had their own loves and their own causes, but who were nonetheless bound up together, and bound to the earth from which they sprang and which bore them up—and to which they would return when their time was done.

And on the northern horizon, visible in the short periods when the sleet relented, there was the mountain that his people called Thegnháma, which he had visited only thrice before. He had spent most of his young years in the southern hills, since his father and mother had parted company for some reason they did not tell. That mountain was an alien place, standing there all alone, far from the Blaecmundas which made up the eastern and northern marches of Stormland. But maybe it was not so alien as it seemed, for only the Thegn and his counselors, and their servant staff and household guards dwelt in Thegnháma, and people from all over Stormland, and even from distant countries, would come there to see the Thegn. This was not so unlike the house of his mother-sister’s husband in Thryngrem, where his own father and brothers would come to visit with him and his mother from time to time, and then go away on other business.

The mountain of Thegnháma was huge now, looming over all. It was not as tall as the great mountains of the east and the north, but out here all by itself it seemed like the center of the world. And it was a broken center: the peak had been rent and nearly leveled, and the great rampart two hundred feet up had been turn asunder, and there was a gaping black hole in the southeastern face where the Dragon had wormed his way into the mountain. All about the base of the mountain was a tumble and jumble of clawed and singed boulders, all fresh-cracked and jagged, like so many teeth punched out of the mouth above. This massive rock fall cut off the view of the main gates of Thegnháma and made a maze for the company to thread.

Here there was less mercy for the eyes of Aelfwinë. Under the boulders lay many of the dead, and no ice had covered them, for both the stones and the mountain itself had shielded them from the weather. Blackness wound itself round the boy’s mind and heart, and he felt sick and afraid, and he very much wanted to run into the comfort of his mother’s arms and hear her tell him it would all be all right, that the Thegn would set everything straight. But he was the Thegn. He had declared it. He had named this task to himself. He must go on. And so he went on, weeping, for his people, and for his family, and for himself. And he felt that maybe Bëalmort and his mother had been right. But here he was. It was all on him, to die and be a short notation in the Chronicle, the last Thegn, for a few weeks, of the line of Hlastomaegn, or to find a way to destroy the beast who had taken over the heart of the land. He could see no other choices. He would see no other choices.

Cold and sick at heart, Aelfwinë and his companions picked their way through the stone maze and came to the broken iron gates. And there they came on the worst sight yet. Aelfwinë fell to his knees and wretched and sobbed. Bëalmort did his best to console his little Thegn, but dignity forbade him to do more than offer words and prayers.

Pinned spread-eagle with iron rods to the walls by the gates were the mutilated corpses of his bothers Aelfëord, Bordric, Cerdon, Meath, and Lorneth. They had not been eaten by the Dragon after all, but had been put here to demonstrate to all, most especially the last remaining son of Hlastomaegn, what would become of those who would make a claim on the hoard of Guthwulf. The companions took the bodies of the murdered brothers down from the cold stone walls and laid them inside the gates and covered them with the tatters of the burnt tapestries that lay all about.

It took Aelfwinë a long time to master himself, but he could not avoid the reality of his situation. It was go ahead and do the deed, get one of his companions to do the deed, stay where he was and rot, try to hide, or try to flee. Three of those choices were certain death, for old serpents the likes of Guthwulf had keener senses than hunting cats, and the old thing had surely heard his anguish echoing through the corridors into Thegnheall where he lay upon the heaped treasures of Stormland. Sending one of his companions to confront the Worm seemed very unlikely to succeed; anything but the genuine article would be slain on sight as a thief and assassin. No, it would have to be Aelfwinë himself who went in, for it would no doubt please the evil old thing to treat with the lord of the land he had invaded, enjoying the stature that the conqueror’s right gave him to speak as if he were a rightful lord and deserved to be dealt with as an equal—or, rather, a better.

At last the boy said, “From here, I will go alone.”

Bëalmort opened his mouth to protest, but Aelfwinë cut him off, saying, “I must, for I have things to say to this monster and murderer of my kin.”

“I am your guardian!” bellowed Bëalmort. “And I am the Chief of the Runemasters! As both, I forbid it!”

“I am your Thegn!” cried Aelfwinë. “I will not be gainsaid!”

“Besides, Bëalmort,” Aelfwinë said quietly, “it would not work. Guthwulf must see me as a young upstart, a fool with a belly full of power. This will amuse him, and he might let me live so that he can play with me.

“Believe me. I would like nothing better than that you should shield me when the Auld Worm lets loose with his fire.” He tapped Bealmort’s wooden shield a couple of times and smiled, and everyone laughed—maybe more out of fear than humor, but it was nonetheless a good sound amid the charred stony waste.

Aelfwinë went into the darkness, and his little heart hammered, and his little head throbbed, and his little feet were like lead weights. He was very afraid to die, now that he had seen something of the masks of death. But all was death in Guthwulf’s realm, and wherever you turned you would find it, so one direction was as good as any other, and he very much wished to look on the murderer of his kin before he went to wherever his soul was destined to go. He therefore willed his unwilling feet to tread, and soon he saw the flickering of torches ahead and the slow movement of man-shapes in the weak red light. It was encouraging for him to think that some of his folk had survived, even though they had been forced into slavery. But when he came close to them he was appalled, for they were like the unquiet dead in the stories boys told to frighten one another. Unspeaking and uncaring, maybe even senseless, they were trudging about in the hallways, purposeless, taking no notice of him. He stopped and wept dry hot tears for them—for he had no real tears left to weep. But he did not stop for long, and then he willed himself to move forward again.

Aelfwinë came at last to a wall of tumbled stones, many of which were taller than he was. These stones cut off most of the passage, leaving just enough room for a grown man to get through. If he remembered the place rightly, which was hard to tell amid all the wrack, beyond this wall was the Thegnheall and the bane of his house.

Screwing up his courage as he waited for two of the unquiet dead to go through, he willed himself through the opening and into the great hall beyond. There was no torch light here in the Thegnheall. There was diffuse daylight that came in from the great hole in the mountain far above, but at this level everything was in deep shadow. The only sense of the immense scale of the hall was the echo of Aelfwinë’s footfalls as he moved cautiously toward the black mound that he supposed was the heaped treasure of his people.

At last he came close enough to make out a shape on top of the mound that might be the outline of the Dragon. It was so huge, and closeness and terror and boyhood made it even bigger. It seemed to occlude all other reality. He felt compelled to come closer yet and to become fully lost in that reality for ever. He almost complied—and he almost lost his nerve and fled. The pull between obedience and terror left him standing where he was, looking on at death incarnate, the faces of his father and brothers, and of the dead he had seen outside, both flashing in his consciousness and forgotten at the same time, for he could not recall who they were and why he was here, only that death was here, and that he wanted to become one with it—and wanted to fly far away from it.

Laughter suddenly filled the hall like falling, crushing boulders, and Aelfwinë’s hands flew up to cover his ears, and his legs could barely hold him upright. He seemed to sway in all directions at once like a reed in a stiff wind. But he managed to endure until the laughter ceased, and he was still standing when the fiery eyes opened in the darkness to regard him.

“Hmm,” said a voice like rolling thunder. “Like the father, and yet unlike. The same level of foolishness, perhaps, but of a different sort. Tell me, little mouse, what you would do here.”

The fire in the golden-yellow eyes of Guthwulf was hot and bright, and it lit things up wherever he turned his gaze. The glitter from the coins and gems and swords and goblets was bewildering. Aelfwinë was dizzy from all the sensations surrounding the Dragon, but there was something amid all the dazzle that made sense to him, a shape that he recognized. He went without thinking of the consequences to pick it up: the axe of his father.

Guthwulf stretched forth a claw and pinned down the axe even as little Aelfwinë took hold of the haft. “You would steal my hard-won treasure from right under my nose, would you?” asked Guthwulf.

Sudden rage rose up in Aelfwinë and roused him out of his stupor. “And you would keep from me what it rightfully mine,” piped his little voice. “This is the weregild I would have for my father and my six brothers.”

“Ha ha ha ha,” laughed Guthwulf. “Very well. You are brave, son of Hlastomaegn. I give you your father’s axe. And when you are big enough for it, I trust you will come again and die like your father died. Perhaps you will have a son of your own by then, and the two of you shall come, and I shall slay you both as I did your father and his eldest. Go now, and grow. I will wait for you.”

Aelfwinë said nothing more but heaved the heavy axe onto his shoulder as best he could and staggered away.

---

“You realize, of course, that we will not pass three leagues from this place before the serpent comes out to take you and reclaim his treasure,” said Bëalmort.

“I suppose,” replied Aelfwinë, “that would be true if I were leaving.”

His companions gasped. “I took this axe as the weregild of my father and my brothers,” he said, “but my people are yet to be avenged.”

“How?” asked Bradscyld. “You are but a boy, Thegn though you be.”

“I am your lord,” said Aelfwinë, “and that means I can name a champion to fight in my stead when I am unable. I am not able. So, I name you, Bradscyld, for you have the mightiest arms with which to wield my father’s axe.”

“I am going to fight the Dragon?” asked Bradscyld, his eyes wide with fear.

“Of course not,” said Aelfwinë. “If my father could not defeat it in open combat, how could you?”

“Then, what would you do?” asked Bëalmort.

“We will take him at unawares,” said Aelfwinë.

“What honor is there in that?” asked Bradscyld, recovering his pride.

“I care not a whit about honor,” said Aelfwinë, “when my country is in peril. Honor is for those who can afford it. I have not got a penny to spare for that prideful old beast.”

---

“Guthwulf!” cried a high-pitched voice out of the darkness. “Guthwulf! I have come to renege the weregild I accepted! Nothing will do for me save your head alone!” Holding a torch, the boy-king stepped momentarily into the view of the Dragon, and then he turned and ran with all the speed he could muster toward the front gates.

The Dragon did not take long answering the challenge. He roused himself up and roared and belched out a blast of flame, and then he came. He tore out the stone barrier of the great hall, and then he was free to come down the hallways.

Aelfwinë could hear the ancient beast puffing and scratching and scraping and clattering behind him. And he could feel the heat of the Worm at his back, and he could feel the beat of Guthwulf’s feet and tail upon the stone. Such was Guthwulf’s fury that it seemed the whole mountain must crash down. Aelfwinë could think of nothing but escape, though he knew escape was not possible, and he ran. All there was in the world was running. The heat and the noise kept coming closer and closer, and his heart was like to burst, but he ran. He did not even dare to hope or think what would come after the running: he ran.

Aelfwinë came out of the gateway, and the head of the Dragon came out just behind him. Down came Bradscyld with the axe of Hlastomaegn, and he hewed the monstrous neck. A great artery was cloven, and hot black blood spewed all about, and where it struck the stone was smoking and pitted. Poor Bradscyld took a great gout full on and fell to the earth in screaming agony. The great beast reared, his blood spraying from his open neck, and then he crashed down and thrashed in his final agony. Bëalmort, Salteages, and Redgerd were crushed to death as stones toppled down on them. Only Aelfwinë, Déorod, Withrynning remained of the seven who had come to the mountain, but the Dragon was conquered, and his slaves were set free, and after a hard winter, the work of rebuilding could begin. King Nethrilon of Teragost would help, now that messages could be sent to him. The House of Thegain would continue. The first was made last, and the last first, and a boy was made king, and all would be set to rights in the spring.

---

            “O, Guthwulf, my fallen captain,” said Rauchar. “Thou hast failed. Thou wert felled by the guile of a child.”

            The demons in the fire-pitted throne hall of Rauchar laughed and squealed.

            Before the throne hovered a flickering, red sphere, the spirit of Guthwulf.

            “But I did not tell to thee all of my foreseeing,” said Rauchar. “Thou hast served me faithfully and fulfilled my purpose. Perhaps I will make thee a new bodiment, but not till thou hast spent the proper time of contemplation, and the fire of thy hate has cooled. One day, thou shalt have thy province to rule, as I promised.

            “It may give thee solace to know that the new king of thy promised province, the boy whose serving-man slew thee, is clever indeed, but he lacks in experience. He will need council and Councillors. I shall provide them to him. I will do much better than the destruction of Stormland. And when King Nethrilon of Teragost seeks to escape there when I assail him this spring, he will fly from peril into peril.

            “Thanks to thee, Guthwulf. But, for now, I have done with thee.”

            With an echoing howl, the flaming sphere disappeared into the floor of the throne hall. The demons cackled.

THE WINE OF THE LEAPING HART

Keep of the Inn

Of the Leaping Hart,

Draw another goblet

From your cask.

For making song is

Work which makes

A valiant thirst.

Thy wine, it warms.

Thy wine, it cools.

Thy wine, it dulls

The righteous anger

Of drunken fools.

Keeper of the Inn

Of the Leaping Hart,

Bring another lady

From your harem.

For making song is

Work which makes

A mighty hunger.

Thy ladies dance.

Thy ladies prance.

Thy ladies provoke

The righteous anger

Of drunken fools.

Keeper of the Inn

Of the Leaping Hart,

Tap another cask

From your store.

For in come ten

More mighty men

Who’ve a mighty thirst.

Thy wine, it pours

For thirsty hearts.

And minds it turns

From righteous anger

To saucy tarts.

Keeper of the Inn

Of the Leaping Hart,

Tap ten more casks:

This is just the start.

From circle to circle;

From wine to ladies

And ladies to wine,

The thirst grows stronger,

And given time,

We’ll thirst no longer.

Now, pass my wine!

END OF PART ONE