Barbalan sat on the floor plaiting her long black hair. She was watching Stringer, who sat on the edge of the couch which had served as their bed for so long. With a cocked head she listened to him strum his rodoft. He had been playing softly, mindlessly, for the last telclad or more. Now his fingers slowed to a halt; he put down the bow and laid the instrument aside. Without saying a word, he stood up and walked over to his old sack, which sat heaped in the corner, untouched for teclads. From it he removed his sun suit, pulled it over his naked body, then found the cowl and adjusted that on his head, pushing the three long cloths behind his neck. His empty water and salt flasks he hung at his side, their leather thongs crossing his chest. He picked up his kalan, ran his finger over the once razor-sharp edge, and strapped that around his waist, too. Finally, he slung the holster for his pistols across his shoulder and was fully armed.
Barbalan screwed up her eyes. What are you doing,
Stringer?
Leaving. Back to Ta-tjenen.
The nod of Barbalan’s head was one of long expectation. You miss Taljen and want to see her again. I
know. Stringer, I have always understood that I have been but a replacement
for her until you were finished with what you had to do.
No!
Stringer said, turning about. No, don’t think that. Taljen is past, you are
present. The past is gone, lost; you are here.
Stringer grabbed
Barbalan’s long hair and pulled her to her feet. He attempted to kiss her,
but she pulled away.
Then why are you going?
Stringer lowered his eyes. Neberdjer and I spoke
together earlier.
Stringer,
it said, the problem is solved, the planet is safe.
When
I asked how, there was a long silence. Have you ever heard a long silence
from Neberdjer? I didn’t think that was possible. And it told me, I have the ability to grow.
That was all it
said, nothing else. Finally, after I pressed and pressed, it said, I could now tell you which particular
Neberdjer went on. I remembers the words very
clearly. circuit
—for lack of a better term—was faulty, because, more than
yourselves, I have the capability of self-analysis. But it would be
meaningless to you, as if someone tried to tell you which brain cell a
thought occurred in.When I once explained to you how a
pendulum worked and you suddenly understood, could you explain to me which
part of you understood? All of you understood. In the same way, after
talking to you last time, I understood the problem to be internal. Once
that fact was admitted, the path to be taken was clear, if risky. I mutated
myself. More correction devices were built, new circuits added, old one
taken out. It was a somewhat random process because the exact location of
the faulty brain cell was blocked from me by the fault itself. But after
enough new organs were generated, the new synthesis produced a successful
being. I have mutated myself to a new Neberdjer. I am not the same one you
knew.
Stringer paused and continued to gaze at the floor. Then I understood that I have been as blind as
Neberdjer. It ignored data that was right in front of its eyes. There was
nothing else wrong. There was no problem that we, from the outside, could
correct. And I’ve done the same thing all along. All the evidence for the
artificiality of the planet was there. How long did I take to put it
together? At the Festival, when I first saw the Gostum and didn’t report it
to Taljen: all the evidence was displayed as if on a screen and I ignored
it. I ignored teclads of data that told me that Taljen only saw me as a
companion for a Patra-Bannk, and I still fell in love with her. And worst
of all, on the way south, I ignored all the indications…Ta-tjenen is being
attacked, isn’t it?
Yes.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Stringer’s voice rose
to the ceiling. No, it isn’t something that should
have to be told. I’m sorry.
I did think it obvious to you. But I also knew
this and so did not speak: Triesk is a city; we were to save a
world. Perhaps, as it has turned out, we were not good world savers, but
was there even a choice?
I even helped the spy…
Stringer went on
unhearing. This could all be my fault. What kind
of a person does this?
he asked himself softly. Neberdjer and I are more than blood brothers, are we
not?
Barbalan only grinned.
Now it is time to go.
Stringer started to
march out of the room and ran straight into Valyavar, who was striding in
the opposite direction.
You’d seem for a fight. Where are you going?
Ta-tjenen.
To me it seems you weren’t on the best of terms
when you left. Wise, is it, to go back?
They’re under attack by our friend Pike, if he
hasn’t finished them off already.
Valyavar cocked an eye. To be sure?
To be sure.
Still, should you go?
Don’t you see? They are on the verge of
extinction. The Bannk before last destroyed most of their fuel supply. Even
if they survive the attack, will they have enough time to prepare for the
Patra? It may be too late now—
You still have not answered, little Stringer. They
hate you at Ta-tjenen, most certainly even more now. Is it wise to go
back?
Stringer whirled about, glaring. What does their
hating me have to do with it? They need my help. There is no fondness in me
for Ta-tjenen but, as you once said, we are all citizens of
Patra-Bannk.
Stringer pushed Valyavar out of the way but Barbalan
jumped up and caught him before he left the room.
The terminal at Triesk is certainly to be guarded
now. Could you fight your way through alone?
Could we even do it together?
Once, at Pant, we pretended you were my
prisoner. There, the ruse didn’t work. Perhaps this time it will.
It’s no trick that I’m your prisoner. Are you
coming, Val?
’Ts been a long time since the battle for the
Transhi. Would I miss this?
The trip north was as quiet as free fall. Stringer checked and rechecked the grasers. Every other moment he would reach down to his side and feel for his kalan. Valyavar sat back stroking his beard and flexing his arms. Stringer could see the glow rising beneath the coal-black eyes. Barbalan leaned forward fingering the Fairtalian pendant which, if anything, would see them through. An occasional attempt at conversation dwindled into silence after a few short moments, and the long quiet would continue.
At the slight thud that always concluded the fall, when the latches took hold, Stringer jumped up, muscles tense.
Barbalan hugged him. This is not a time to be
nervous, Stringer. You are a great fighter with the kalan, so Valyavar
tells me and so I have seen. Do you fight well when nervous? Or when
relaxed? Your mind must be as sharp as your kalan but at its ease. Your
body must be as tense as a coiled spring but without tension.
You’re right.
Stringer hid his graser and
released his kalan to Barbalan. The door opened, and the circular map that
stood in the center of the room came into view. It’s a large terminal,
he whispered, seeing
dozens of other exits. It must connect half of
Patra-Bannk.
New recruits,
Barbalan said, walking by the
first guards she saw.
The guard already had her hand on her sword. Why are they not blindfolded?
A stupid oversight! Barbalan tossed Stringer his kalan. He caught it and lunged at the Gostum, piercing her through the stomach. Barbalan delivered a slice across another’s neck almost simultaneously, and that guard didn’t even have a chance to cry.
Stringer swiveled around to see a third guard diving through the air at Valyavar. Stunned, Stringer watched the giant catch the guard in midair and in one continuous motion bring the man down across his knee. Stringer heard a loud crack as the victim’s back broke, and was glad that he had never fought with Valyavar. Only then did Valyavar pull out his graser and begin stalking the terminal exit.
No,
Barbalan said, let me go first. If there are only a few, I’ll kill
them myself before they know what is going on. If there are more than a
few, we have little hope, anyway.
I’m not sure about that,
Stringer said,
cringing under Valyavar’s eye, the same eyes he had seen when they had
first met, many years ago.
Barbalan opened the door, and Stringer followed her and Valyavar out into the sun of the Weird Bannk. He looked around and saw the surrounding hills covered with tents.
New recruits,
Barbalan was explaining to the
guards. This time the ploy worked. This way. Come
on, now! A Weird Bannk it is, but the sun is nonetheless to be gotten out
of.
The three climbed up a hillside on which Gostum soldiers and their
allies swarmed about like ants. The smell was horrifying.
They halted at the summit of a farther hill to see a Ta-tjenen under siege. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tents surrounded the citadel, concentrated to the southwest, near the remains of the burned-out forest. Stringer saw three shuttles off to his right, nestled within the confines of a large group of buildings. A flag of orange and black flew above it. To the east, several kilometers distant: the coast and small ships. Smoke rose from the water’s edge and more tents could be seen there. Another front? Who could be battling from the sea?
Soon they had scurried down the hill and were walking among the Gostum
camped at the base of the acropolis. You haven’t
taken the city?
Barbalan asked the first soldier they met.
You have been away, I take it.
Yes, exactly.
Do you see?
the man asked, pointing to
the top of the city. That can only signify
one thing.
Barbalan looked up to see a black column of smoke rising from an unseen fire and dissipating in the wind. Just then a cartload of corpses was dumped over the city wall, and as the bodies tumbled down the slopes, Gostum soldiers scattered in all directions.
After we cut through the magic fence and the
sun finally blessed us by moving enough so we were not blinded, there was
still that. Do we want to enter and die ourselves? There is a great
discussion, and the answer should be coming shortly from the
Commander.
Ta-tjenen is desperate now,
Stringer said. If you two are afraid, you can stay here. I’m
going.
Barbalan nodded her approval and pressed Stringer’s hand. But, Stringer, there is still one problem: how do we
get in?
Stringer’s eyes lit up. The Gostum seem to have
forgotten that most of Ta-tjenen is underground. There is a passage that
exits not far from here. I used it to take Nothing out for its
first flight. But first, you’d better find some other clothes. A Gostum in
Ta-tjenen is not treated lightly.
Barbalan disappeared for a moment and returned in a plain sun suit.
Okay, this way.
Stringer circled around to the
northeast. Only a few Gostum were there, and most of them seemed to be
running off to the coast. It’s around here
somewhere, hidden,
Stringer said as he climbed the rocks that lined the
base of the hill.
Watch it, Stringer!
came Valyavar’s warning,
but it was too late. An arrow from above had already pierced Stringer’s
arm.
It’s all right,
Stringer replied as he pressed
himself against the hill. He yanked the arrow from his flesh, and Barbalan
bound the wound with a bandage cut from her cowl.
Let’s hope that arm needn’t be used soon,
she
said.
Stringer chuckled. Let’s hope. There’s the door,
over there, between those two rocks. See?
Valyavar scrambled over and began to hurl aside the thick camouflage of branches and stone.
Now Gostum soldiers began to gather below them, attracted by the commotion.
Shoot them—
Stringer’s command was too
late. Valyavar had lifted a rock and hurled it down the hill. It bounced
once and crashed into two Gostum. Barbalan shot another with Stringer’s
pistol.
There’s no time to waste now. In we go,
Valyavar cried as he crashed open the door. Stringer and Barbalan scrambled
in, and together the three of them wedged the door shut with pieces of the
Junk and Stringer’s old workbench.
Follow me.
Stringer led the way into the
inhabited parts of the Under. The dead and near dead were lying about in
the communal rooms and in the passageways. The stench of decaying bodies
was everywhere, as well as the bitter smells of urine and feces.
Outside the Gateway it was not much better. Debris from the terminator winds still littered the plaza. Ta-tjenen had not even begun repairs this Bannk. Fires heaped with the bodies of the dead were burning everywhere. Stringer covered his mouth and coughed.
A Tjenen with swollen cheeks walked close by them, stared with sunken eyes, and collapsed at their feet.
What else could they expect?
Valyavar
asked. In a place like this? Sun, close quarters,
food supplies low. How did Ta-tjenen expect to withstand such a siege? Did
they walk away from their minds? Now they may realize that generals have
little to do with the outcome of wars. They but mop up after nature.
Stringer saw a group of men pulling a catapult toward the city walls. They were still fighting. It was, indeed communal suicide.
Stringer, now what do you expect to do?
Barbalan asked.
Stringer grimaced. Come on.
He set off for the
edge of the city. He saw the shadow of the gnomon quivering on the sundial,
faint in the smoke of the dead and haze of the air. The Bannk was not even
half done.
So Polkraitz!
Stringer spun around.
You have come to finish off your work!
The face was unfamiliar to Stringer. It could have been one of those who, in earlier times, had listened to his rodoft, never sure whether the Alien was a simple murderer or a Polkraitz intent on destroying them all. Now, of course, the answer was clear.
You came at the Golun and heralded the doom of
Ta-tjenen. Now you come back to gloat over your work!
The man lunged at
him but Stringer just stepped aside and the stranger fell. He stirred
faintly on the ground.
Valyavar bent to the body on the ground and gave him some water from his
flask and some synthetic bread from Neberdjer. The man choked, managed to
sit up for a few brief moments, then collapsed. Valyavar shook his head. There seems to be no god of healing in this story,
little Stringer. Do you understand me?
Stringer nodded and the three
continued.
Alhane’s yard was even more cluttered than Stringer had remembered it, not only with new instruments but with people milling about as well. Stringer pushed his way through the crowd and no one tried to stop him. He held his breath as he entered the house, door open as always. More papers than ever littered the floor; old manuscripts lay open, covering almost all the bare wood. Stringer scanned the first room, finding faces that were only vaguely familiar. Why were they here? The situation was no different in the second or third workroom. All the clocks were still running; as always, all indicated different times. For the first time since he had reentered Ta-tjenen, Stringer managed to smile.
Stringer did not notice the figure that stepped out from behind the second doorway. The knife streaked toward his neck but clattered to the floor as Valyavar’s iron grip caught the hand that held it. Taljen gasped in pain.
I thought she was a friend of yours, Stringer.
Stringer gaped at Taljen in silence. Her hair was thin and her face too
pale for a Weird Bannk; but she was still Taljen, the same woman whom he
had left almost a Patra-Bannk earlier, whose beauty struggled to remain
undiminished. Stringer extended his wounded arm toward her dirty cheek and
with his hand brushed back her hair. He studied her eyes for a long
moment, pupils flitting back and forth. Let her
go, Val,
he said, turning away, let her go.
In the fourth room he found Alhane sitting at his desk. A young blond-haired man was sitting next to him. Stringer had seen that one before—at Konndjlan. A Gostum here, in a Ta-tjenen under siege?
Alhane and the blond-haired man had been silently looking at each other all
this time and only gradually became aware that someone else was in the same
room. Finally Alhane saw Stringer from the corner of his eye. There was a
slight hesitation of disbelief, and then he jumped up and hugged the
intruder. Stringer! We have just made a great
discovery! No, Effrulyn has just made a great discovery—
I could not have done it without your
experiments,
the young man replied, scowling. The credit is equally yours—
Oh, I thank you, but it doesn’t matter. What matters
is that we have found it. You were right, Stringer! Your gravity was right!
We have discovered a great thing about the world!
We have discovered that we know nothing,
Effrulyn added.
Alhane sighed. I concede there are difficulties. At
the moment, we have only the relative distances between the sun,
Patra-Bannk, and the Runaway. At the moment, Effrulyn’s constant is
undetermined. We need it to find those distances and also to verify your
claim about the density of Patra-Bannk. The sun could be a million
kilometers away—
I say a thousand.
We haven’t the faintest idea. Patra-Bannk could be
as dense as a brass weight—
I say a feather.
We don’t know. We must determine that constant. An
independent experiment is needed.
Effrulyn scowled, as usual. All we’ve discovered
as a result of your investigations are unsolvable problems.
Unsolvable problems from my investigations! Good!
And what has your theorem brought upon us, I ask you—
Beauty, elegance, and above all, symmetry—
You are ignoring the real implications, I tell
you. If the Universe is finite in extent, it must collapsed by its own
gravity, as Stringer once told me is now happening, even though I can’t see
it. But if the Universe should be infinite in extent—
How?
If the world is round, the Universe can be
infinite. And if it is, with infinite forces pulling in all directions, all
the gravity cancels out and the Universe can’t collapse, except in local
clusters, which may have been what Stringer meant.
You assume all infinities are equal! A child’s
assumption!
Then the Universe can be infinite and still
collapse. Is that to be the way of the world?
If the Universe is infinite, your foolish eyes
would be burned out by a sunlit sky during the Patra. Explain that!
Humph. And we still haven’t explained how the
Universe ever expanded in order for it to begin collapsing, so Stringer
must be wrong—
Metaphysics! That’s all I hear these beclads,
metaphysics! And you claimed you studied reality! Is there any wonder I’m a
mathematician? Next we’ll be dancing on the head of a pin!
Valyavar leaned over to Stringer and whispered in his ear, Did they expect the road to God to be an easy
one?
Stringer broke out into laughter but found that his eyes were tearing. He
put his hands on the two combatants’ shoulders and smiled. I could tell you something about that, Alhane, Keeper
of the Great Clock, for I too have discovered a few things about this
world. But I am afraid that it would take me three hundred years to explain
it to you, my old friend.
A year? You must tell me what a year is.
A year? A year!
Stringer jerked his head erect
as if he had been shot in the back. You will find
out soon enough!
Alhane shook his head. I am afraid that Ta-tjenen
will find out nothing soon enough. Although I used every defense I could
think of and Glintz came to our aid, we have lost. If the Gostum decide to
attack again, we are finished—
Effrulyn jumped to his feet. I just remembered. I
did originally come to ask you if you would like to surrender.
Alhane waved him down. Even if we do surrender, a
thing I could never convince the nestrexam to do, it will make no
difference. The Bannk will engender the disease, and if we are not dead by
sunset, we will be shortly afterward. The Patra will bury us. We have no
more fuel and will have to go too far to get it. Ta-tjenen is ended on
three sides, my young colleague.
No!
Stringer shouted. There will be no more Patras or Bannks. I think I
have the solution.
What? Are you not telling us falsely?
I can’t explain; it would take three hundred
years. Alhane, can you build me a megaphone, something to project my voice
to the Gostum faction?
Yes, I believe we could do that.
Then hurry up.
Alhane rushed out and Effrulyn glanced up at Stringer. I am afraid I have tarried here too many beclads. By
now the Gostum will think me traitor or dead—such trivialities! In either
case, they will certainly attack for revenge. It is an excuse as good as
all the others they have been using.
Hold on. I suspect that that you are most useful
here.
Stringer then left the room.
Alhane, with his customary resourcefulness, had put something together in less than a telclad, and at Stringer’s direction a huge megaphone was loaded onto a cart and taken to the south edge of the city.
Stringer climbed on top of the cart and prepared to speak to the Gostum thirty or forty meters below.
Pike had long ago removed his cape and was walking through the
camp with Fara-Ny and Karrxlyn. Pike had decided that Effrulyn was
dead and now was the time for the final attack. Triesk would fall
as a straw man blown over in the wind. He mounted his grask and
rode through the camp. Men, while you have
been waiting, we have made the decision. One final push and Triesk will be
ours. There is no turning back now! We are almost through and soon the
rockets will be ours!
The troops slowly armed themselves and more
slowly formed ranks. Pike realized there was dissension in their hearts. I will lead the attack myself. We will take one of my
ships and land in the middle of Triesk. I will risk being captured for you,
and you will follow.
At this the troops cheered. The sound was pleasant to Pike’s ears. They would indeed follow him anywhere. He was Commander. Bows were snatched up and catapults armed.
Back to the ship, Karrxlyn. Get three dozen of your
best. This will soon be over.
Pike rode off. He did not notice the
small figure perched on the city walls above his head, or if he did, he
never guessed that it was his former companion. But he halted when he heard
the voice carried down by the wind.
Gostum below! Listen to me! I am Polkraitz, like
your Commander. Those who remember that there was more than one Alien will
believe me.
Pike glared up. Stringer alive! At Triesk! How? He must have found out—Pike smiled to himself. A worthy opponent at last.
You will find nothing in Triesk. No rockets to
take you from Patra-Bannk. They do not exist. I, one of the Polkraitz, tell
you this.
Do not listen to the traitor!
Pike yelled. Shoot him down! Prepare for the attack!
Stringer looked down from the high walls and saw continuous motion. Arrows shot from crossbows began to fly upward.
I don’t think they are listening,
Alhane
said. It’s no use.
Stringer raised the megaphone once more. Those who
join the attack will see the results within half a beclad! The sun will
fall! I, one of the Polkraitz, tell you this.
The preparations below slowed for a moment, but soon the barrage began anew
as Pike urged them on. The last attack! I promise you
this as your Commander and as one of the Returned myself.
The first catapult was fired and the city wall next to Stringer rocked. He
sighed. Barbalan, Valyavar, we have to get back to
Neberdjer.
Barbalan gazed out over the fields. It will be
impossible now, Stringer. Pike is certainly wanting your death.
Then he’ll get me. Effrulyn, I have seen you with
Pike before. He knows you.
Yes,
the mathematician answered. I was his chief advisor. He no doubt thinks me
deceased.
Good, then he’ll be pleasantly surprised to see
you again, especially with us as your prisoners. Let’s go before he gets
here. I know a way out.
Stringer had his hands bound together as well
as those of Barbalan and Valyavar. They left via the way they had come, and
Effrulyn marched them unhindered straight into the Gostum command
headquarters.
A present for you, Commander,
Effrulyn shouted
to Pike just as he was stepping into the shuttle. They surrendered rather than die with Triesk.
Pike halted. Effrulyn, you are alive! Good.
Then
he looked at Stringer as if he had never known him. So, you also are still alive, it seems. That skinny body
of yours has proved to be more troublesome than one would have
expected. But I have no time to waste with you now and will decide your
fate later.
Wait!
Stringer shouted. You will find nothing in Triesk. You have my
word. Just some old shuttles. Don’t you realize that the only thing here is
that terminal, which you have already found?
The Polkraitz will be avenged. The cause is just.
Pike took one more step into the shuttle.
Stringer thought quickly. Wait!
he shouted
again, holding out his weak right arm. I know
where the metallic hydrogen factory is. I will show it to you if you do not
attack Triesk.
Pike hesitated at the shuttle threshold. You have
discovered the hydrogen factory?
Stringer worked on that hesitation. Yes, and it’s
yours if you want it.
Karrxlyn also noticed the hesitation. But,
Commander, what about Triesk?
Shut up!
Be careful of your speech, Commander,
Karrxlyn
said, hand on sword.
You will obey me! Don’t you see there is nothing in
Triesk? Stringer will tell you. Don’t you see that all this has been a
game? Do you really think I fell for your Polkraitz business? Yes, you will
have your Triesk; I promised you that. But you will wait until my business
is done. I tell you this as the Returned and as your Commander. Do you
understand that?
Since Karrxlyn understood that Pike was contradicting himself at every turn, he nodded, grip still tight on the hilt of his sword.
Now you will wait for me.
All right, Commander, I will wait.
Karrxlyn
released his sword and relaxed, deciding that any action would be better
postponed.
Pike turned back to Stringer. How do I know you are
telling the truth?
You have all of Triesk as hostage. Will you come
with me?
Pike looked at Karrxlyn and the age Fara-Ny. Their eyes were at once stern
and hopeless. If I am not back within half a beclad,
attack without me. Now, Stringer, where do we go?
The terminal.
The bodies were still heaped inside northern Patra-Bannk’s main station
when the entourage arrived. Pike entered behind the others and then glanced
in turn at Valyavar, Barbalan, and Effrulyn. No. We go
alone.
Don’t you trust me?
Stringer asked.
That’s not the question. Do you want to see your
friends alive again is the question. Now, show me where we are going on the
map.
Stringer stepped to the inside of the huge cylindrical map and pointed. Neberdjer, it’s called. There on the equator. The
central controls to this planet—and to your hydrogen supply.
Neberdjer!
Pike exclaimed. I
have been there and talked to it. It is really in charge of this
planet?
Yes.
Pike’s expression of surprise instantly transformed itself into one of
rage. That beast tried to kill me! But it will learn
what trying to kill one of the Polkraitz means! If it doesn’t show me the
hydrogen supply this time, I will blow that whole city sky-high!
Pike
slammed his fist on the Neberdjer bar and the car door opened. Yes, Stringer, I have found out a few things about this
planet. It is time Neberdjer came to its reckoning.
Pike backed out
under the map, into the car, fending Stringer off with a graser. And you, Stringer, have crossed me for the last
time. Guards, take them!
Pike disappeared.
Effrulyn held out his hands at the advancing Gostum. You will not move. Let them be.
Then he said to
Stringer, Pike is mad. None of the actions make
any sense whatsoever. He has forgotten what he was and what he came for. In
his attempt to write his own epitaph across the stars, he has come to
grasping at straws.
I see that,
Stringer replied. What do we do now?
We can’t let him get to Neberdjer!
Barbalan
cried. Who knows what he will do to it?
At that instant, Stringer’s memory flooded open. The early warnings not to argue with him, Barbalan falling strangled at Konndjlan, the cell door slamming shut, the refugees from Massarat slammingshut shut TaljenslammingshutterminalatPantslammingshutPike’sfistsslammingshutcouncilchambersiegeonTrieskslamming—. Stringer shivered. From the top to the bottom of his body he shivered and his hand was clenched so tightly into a fist that blood trickled from where the nails had cut through. Yes, he realized then, in that flooding moment, Pike and he had more than a few things in common. He knew well what Pike would do.
A glance at the map showed a small light, indicating that Pike was on his way. It was barely moving now, not enough even to be visible on that map, but Stringer knew that the speed would rapidly increase…
…and we can’t fall any faster than he can.
His
voice was tense and quivering. Wait! There must be
a port under here. We’ll take a ship.
Stringer quickly scanned the
directory. Over here! Come on!
He raced through one of the many doors with Valyavar and Barbalan close behind him. In a few moments he was running up a gangplank. He had used a ship like this once before on their journeys to the ends of Patra-Bannk. The controls were clear to him, the language familiar, taught to him by Neberdjer over the teclads. The ship sprang to life under his fingers. The engines fired and the Netherworld craft slipped off the ramp. Stringer steered for the tunnel. But many dozens of tunnels emerged from the terminal above his head, radiating like spokes of a wheel and traveling to parts of Patra-Bannk hundreds of thousands of kilometers away. Which one of those tunnels disappearing into the gloom? Which one?
Stringer yelled at the ship’s computer, which had not heard a voice in
perhaps millions of years. Can you follow the
tunnel to Neberdjer?
Yes.
Do it! Can you get Neberdjer to illuminate the
inside?
Yes, I am tied in to Central.
Do it!
A few seconds later all of Inner Patra-Bannk lit up in a dazzling display. Tunnel streaked this way and that, brilliant fluorescent lines. Sensor stations lit up like stars. Beams from the collection sphere radiated like searchlights into the blackness. Finally, one tunnel separated itself out from the rest, and Stringer knew which one to follow.
Computer, can you have Neberdjer tell you the
position of the car in the tunnel?
Yes.
Do it. Stay ahead of it! Accelerate faster than
gravity!
The ship shot through the void, outracing the tunnel that stretched before
them. Put on the suits!
Stringer commanded
suddenly, and Valyavar and Barbalan obeyed. Stringer hurriedly did the
same, wincing as the pain from his wound rippled through his arm. Then he
took over the controls from the computer. His body was shaking. Brace yourselves,
was the only warning he gave
before he circled the ship about and slammed it into the tunnel that
trailed beside them.
The ship thundered, and all three were thrown off their feet. Stringer heard the ugly gash of metal against metal and thought the world was caving in. Then everything was quiet. He turned the rocket about in an arc that must have been hundreds of kilometers in radius and crept back. From the gap in the tunnel’s lights he could see that the once continuous tube was rent in two by a huge ragged gash.
How’s the ship?
Stringer asked, feeling the
wound on his arm opening again.
Leaking,
Barbalan replied. You could have waited until Neberdjer.
I wasn’t in the mood,
Stringer said as he
brought the ship to rest near the break in the tunnel. Now we wait.
It wasn’t long before Pike’s car slowed to a halt just at the break in the tunnel. Stringer picked up his kalan and staggered toward the air lock.
Where are you going?
Barbalan cried.
Stringer didn’t answer.
You’re hurt, Stringer; don’t be a fool.
Barbalan planted herself before the hatch.
Again Stringer did not answer. He pushed her out of the way. Because of his wounded arm, Barbalan could easily have overpowered him, but she didn’t. She saw the burning, fixated eyes and knew that even if she would never see him again, Stringer must pass.
Don’t struggle. Please,
she said softly as
Stringer disappeared through the air lock.
He emerged near the mouth of the tube. The smashed end was directly beside him, and he lowered himself carefully over the edge. He swung inward and dropped the four-meter diameter to the bottom.
The car sat not far away, no longer hovering above hydrogen tracks. Its lights dimly reflected down the tunnel. Stringer walked slowly, crouched and kalan drawn. He felt his way between car and tunnel wall to the rear entrance and had put his hand on the manual latch when he remembered suits that could be found within for visiting poisonous areas. He yanked open the door and a spacesuited Pike dove over him, like a Gostum, and slammed onto the tunnel floor. Stringer began to back up the curved wall. Only then did he see Pike’s heavy sword. Clearly, one touch alone would be allowed in this duel. If his suit ripped, or Pike’s weapon touched his own and the kalan shattered, that would signal his opponent’s victory. But the kalan was lighter and faster than a Gostum sword, and that would be useful, too.
An instant before Stringer had recovered, Pike was up and swung the blade. Stringer ducked, falling once again between car and tunnel. Blood from his wounded arm was dripping in his suit. He heard the grate of iron against solid hydrogen as Pike’s blow barely missed. Where had the man’s speed come from? The pain in Stringer’s right arm welled up and he felt dizzy. He passed his kalan to his left hand and moved back. Now both were wedged between the two walls. Stringer lunged, gritting his teeth. Pike kept his distance too well. Stringer regained his balance and sprang backward. Now he was in front again, between car and tunnel break. Suddenly Stringer slipped on the curved wall. Pike made the best of his chance. Stringer’s kalan, caught between blade and wall, snapped.
And now I’m proving to be more troublesome than you
expected,
Pike’s voice taunted over the suit radio. Being a Gostum requires some training, you realize. But,
Stringer, why are you so slow? You’re making this very easy.
Stringer almost shut off the receiver but didn’t. He kept backing up, holding his broken kalan low, feeling the blood run down his right arm. The pain returned. Stringer began to shake and his vision blurred momentarily. For a fraction of a heartbeat he though he saw, not Pike in front of his eyes, but himself. He shook his head violently.
You’re hesitating, Stringer. Why? I’ve never seen you
hesitate to kill someone before.
Pike’s voice was hypnotic.
Stringer shook his head and backed up farther. Who am I fighting? he heard a distant part of himself ask. Don’t struggle, Barbalan’s warning came to him again. Stringer suddenly stood up straight and breathed deeply.
Pike screamed and swung.
Stringer rolled aside as one leg slipped over the break. He desperately shifted his body weight and hung on with all his strength. Pike’s swing had carried him too far and he toppled over the edge, entering free fall once again.
Save me!
came the hysterical voice over the radio.
Stringer scrambled back into the tube, steadied himself, and looked out into the speckled blackness. He saw nothing that could be Pike. He took a deep breath and sighed.
So,
he said softly, you’re about to reach your goal, the metallic
hydrogen factory. Down there, on the energy collection sphere, where the
gravity is the thousands of gees required to make the stuff, you will find
your treasure. It is yours, Commander.
Stringer shut off the radio and collapsed on the tunnel floor.
Valyavar, who had witnessed the fight from above, quickly swung down to his companion, landing heavily on the tube.
Stringer?
he said.
Stringer waved Valyavar aside and got to his feet unaided. He still held the broken kalan loosely in his left hand. He took a long look at the ancient bloodstains that ornamented the blade, sighed, and tossed the kalan over the edge. With Valyavar’s arm around him and Barbalan’s help from above, Stringer climbed back into the ship.
To Central,
he said wearily. To go?
All right,
Barbalan replied. But put your helmet back on. Your impetuosity has
given us a crippled ship and not much time.
Karrxlyn was angry at the delay. And he tired quickly of twiddling his
fingers. Fara-Ny, let me attack. Don’t you see
that the Commander has deserted us, reverted to his old ways? Triesk can be
ours within the beclad and this will all be over.
Fara-Ny stood up int he council room and wiped the sweat off his ancient
brow. I cannot argue. You are right. Lead the
attack.
Karrxlyn stalked out of the room and galloped into the main camp. To your feet! I am in command! We attack now. This is
the final attack!
The Gostum army rose to its feet and was ready.
Alhane looked down from the walls of Ta-tjenen and sighed. Do what you can,
he told those around him. Get the reflectors. I’ll make sure we have all the
electric fluid we can get.
In his voice there was little trace of
hope. He turned to Taljen, who had not left him all this time. I can’t think of anything else to do,
he said
flatly.
Time Keeper, if you can’t think of anything else to
do, who can?
I hope Stringer has.
Taljen bit her lip. Stringer, Polkraitz, has failed
us.
Alhane shook his head. He may have failed, that I
don’t know, but I am sure he was always on our side.
Even now I am not sure that I believe that,
considering what has come before.
Surely you must.
Why? How has he shown it? You heard him on the walls
declaring to all that he was Polkraitz. He lied all the time.
Did you read the journal he kept, the one I gave
you?
Taljen nodded somewhat meekly.
He loved you. Did you love him, ever?
Taljen hesitated, then shook her head. What
difference does it make? Besides, he has another…
Do I detect anger in that?
Because of another? At Ta-tjenen?
Taljen’s laugh
was a sneer.
I’m told you tried to kill him earlier.
Taljen tried unsuccessfully to smile. Not because of
that, but because I thought…
Her words stumbled. Oh, I don’t know.…After all this, I…I don’t know who or
what he is.…
Well,
Alhane said, taking her arm, we shall have to wait and find out.
You still haven’t told us what you are going to
do,
Barbalan pleaded as Stringer sat down with Neberdjer.
He dropped his helmet to the floor and caught his breath. I’m going to play God.
Valyavar raised his bushy eyebrows. Not content to
have found him?
No. You said there was no god of healing in this
story. Now we’re going to take his place. This may be the way to do it. The
black hole down there contains an inconceivable amount of angular
momentum…
Puzzled, Barbalan shook her head, but Valyavar’s eyes grew wide in disbelief.
You aren’t!
By Sarek, I sure as hell am. Neberdjer, can you
transfer the angular momentum of the black hole to the shell?
Of course. There would be little point in a
planet like this if that operation couldn’t be done.
But think of what you’ll do!
Valyavar said. The climate will change—
That’s the idea.
You might kill off half the life on this
planet.
I don’t think so. I think life will flourish. What
little life there is now, in the
temperate
regions mostly, has
assumed two tracks: one for the Patra and one for the Bannk. Now the
necessity will disappear and the two tracks will merge into one.
The winds—
Yes, they’ll start changing, too. Coriolis forces
are going to start making things interesting. We might even start a
world-sized hurricane or tornado. Maybe seasons, too, if this planet is
tilted.
Approximately twenty degrees to the ecliptic,
Neberdjer interrupted, adjustable, naturally.
Valyavar remained unconvinced. Millions of years
of evolution and—Sarek—you might even melt the polar icecaps. A fine fix
Ta-tjenen will be in then—
Then they’ll have to move inland.
Little Stringer, who can say what you are going to
do if you speed this planet up? We don’t even know why it is so slow to
begin with.
Neberdjer, why is the rotational speed of this
planet so slow?
No information on this.
Useless! Neberdjer, why couldn’t you have been
made foolproof?
Perhaps,
Neberdjer replied calmly, for the same reason one can’t make a foolproof
Stringer.
Stringer scowled. All right. You’re correct that
we may wreck a lot of ecology, but I’m not sure. You think that the long
term may be disastrous. I can’t see that being any more disastrous than it
is now. There may also be hundreds of other tribes on this planet by
accident that we haven’t even discovered. Patra-Bannk is that big. But we
don’t know. We don’t know about any of that. What we do know is that
thousands of people are going to die and that tens of thousands of people
are always on the verge of dying because things are so impossible now. Your
arguments put a lot of
ifs
against what I know already. I’m willing
to gamble that my hunch is correct—
What’s that?
Neberdjer, in your activation timetable, are you
scheduled to speed up this planet to a faster rotation?
Yes, but not for about ten-to-the-sixteenth light
meters—excuse me, a few years yet.
Then I’ll gamble. I want you to do it now.
It is out of sequence. Is there good reason to do
it?
You’ve heard my arguments. Haven’t you been
listening?
Yes, but I have had no experience with these
people and, I must confess, do not understand the problem.
They’re going to die is the problem!
I was not brought up with that concept; it is
difficult. Besides, after having dealt with a number of people at this
point, I would say, that, by and large, it would make more sense to let
them die off. Certainly it makes more sense to worry about the fungus and
lichen than about people.
Stringer bit his lip and thought about that for a moment. Finally he said,
Neberdjer, will you do it for me? Because I tried
my best to help you? Because I played my rodoft for you?
The pause before the reply was noticeable. All
right, Stringer, I will. I don’t see any difficulties at the moment. But if
something should unexpectedly go wrong, I may have to slow the planet down
again.
I’ll accept that. Then, Barbalan, wouldn’t you say
it’s time to stop thinking? Neberdjer, speed up the shell until it has a
revolution period of one beclad.
A beclad? Can you convert that to geometric
units?
No, I can’t! Make it about once every sixty-five
hours; I’ve told you what an hour is. We’ll make final adjustments
later.
How should this be done? The program in my
timetable takes a number of years.
We can’t wait that long! It has to be done within
hours or less—
The planetary damping mechanisms will be only
quasi-effectual on such short time scales.
You mean things will slosh around a bit?
That is an understatement.
Stringer thought quickly. Can’t you do something
like increase the acceleration to a maximum by five hours and then back off
by ten?
Compared to the damping time scale of the ocean,
that is a delta function, zero duration. I think a constant acceleration
would give as reasonable results as might be hoped for.
Do you know what the effects on the planet will
be?
The planet is obviously made to withstand such
maneuvers. Do you mean effects on the surface?
Of course!
I will engage all the available planetary damping
mechanisms, but things will, as you say, slosh around a bit. Detailed
calculations would take several hours. Printouts for your inspections would
take several years.
Stringer slammed his fist on the console. Do it
anyway you want! Do it now! Ten hours!
There is one important thing you have probably
overlooked,
Neberdjer continued with an enraging calm. Admittedly, it is a rather esoteric point.
Stringer was getting very impatient. And what is
that?
I will have to increase the surface gravity
somewhat.
You will?
all
three shouted simultaneously. Admittedly, Stringer hadn’t foreseen this. Why?
he gulped.
We will be decreasing the angular momentum of the
black hole and transferring it to the shell. This is equivalent to taking
mass from the hole and adding to the shell. Thus, so far, the gravity is
constant, less due to the decreased mass of the hole, more due to the
increased mass of the shell. But we have slowed down the rotation of the
hole in doing so. Efficient energy extraction for planetary operations
requires that I have the shell rotating as fast as possible. This requires
that I speed it up once more, or that more rotational energy be placed into
the hole. Energy is mass. The mass of the hole will increase, and so will
the surface gravity.
Stringer touched the desk nervously. That could be
bad. How much?
It will be noticeable, but not critical for you
humans, I would guess. The process will take several days.
Where will you get the extra mass?
There are a number of possibilities. We could
dump in more garbage, but at the moment don’t have enough in stock. You
will notice only one other planet in the solar system at present—
That’s fuel?
What else would it be there for? We could take it
out of orbit, crumble it up, and bring the pieces down through the Great
Desert, but that would be cumbersome. The easiest thing to do is to send a
signal to the next space tangential to this one at the hole and have the
mass dumped in from that side. Symmetry, you know. One side’s as good as
another.
Stringer blinked. What are you talking about?
What makes you think that all of this planet is
in one Universe?
The silence lasted forever as Stringer’s jaw fell open and long fingers
found their way between strands of black hair. Indeed,
he said quietly, bowing his head, if the world has an edge, it is not here.…
Eventually he looked up again. In a voice that trailed off to inaudibility,
he said, Do it. Please do it…now.…
Several hundred thousand kilometers beneath them, titanic forces began work that would transfer the angular momentum of the black hole to the outer shell. Inconceivable amounts of energy were tossed about like playthings. And Patra-Bannk began to spin faster and faster.…
With newly discovered spirit and adrenaline, the Gostum forces attacked Triesk, raining projectiles that crashed down on houses, splintered walls, and knocked people to the ground. Arrows rained down on Karrxlyn and his men, but the numbers became fewer and fewer, and between each barrage his men drew closer and closer to the top of the citadel.
The men of Glintz were pushed back to the remains of their fleet, half of which had been destroyed by the rain of fire from the Gostum catapults and a quarter of which were burning now. Fent shot an arrow and was pleased to see one of the Gostum felled. His hand reached down to the quiver at his side and found it empty.
The Gostum were no longer surprised by the magic fence and, as the previous Commander had instructed, cut through it quickly, destroying its powers. The summit was not far distant now.
With the help of his children and a scattering of other, Alhane guided his reflectors into the eyes of his enemies as they swarmed up the remains of the citadel steps. But there were not enough reflectors now to start fires with the diffused sun; there were hardly enough to cause their foe to blink. The problem was simple and final: there was not enough of anything now, and the Gostum would soon reduce what remained of Ta-tjenen to a heap of ashes. The resignation was so complete that distraction had set in, and Alhane, at first, did not notice that he was having trouble focusing the light continuously. Suddenly he felt slightly, ever so slightly, dizzy, and he had to force himself to keep his eyes open and functioning. Had the reflectors in his hands become heavier? Or had the last of his strength finally given out?
Soon the winds began changing direction. Alhane didn’t understand that at all. Patra-Bannk winds did not gust and veer like that without good reason. Why couldn’t the winds make up their minds which way they were blowing?
The dizziness would not go away, and the failing strength in his arms fled even faster. The armies below were in confusion. Alhane felt the temperature rising. That had never happened so fast. Then the temperature fell again and Alhane was doubly confused. And then he heard the shouts all around him.
The sun! The sun has moved! We
disobeyed the Polkraitz and the sun has moved!
The bows from the citadel stopped twanging. Alhane glanced up with the Time Keeper’s eyes that so accurately knew the position of the sun at all times, and nearly fainted.
Meters below him, the giant warrior Karrxlyn fell to his knees. Verlaxchi! Were you not on our side?
The winds veered again suddenly, making a complete about-face, and the last of the Gostum catapults stopped firing.
Little hope was in evidence as Fent and his men were pressed off the
beach. To the ships! Board the ships!
To
heed the call was their last chance for survival. Ta-tjenen was doomed now,
and there was no point in denying it further. Fent turned and ran headlong,
but he jerked to a halt when he saw the Glintzan vessels far out to sea and
being dragged farther yet as the water rushed away from the beach. Fent
dropped his sword. If fate was so much against them, it was better to die
now, immediately. Yet he now saw that the Gostum had halted their advance
in confusion. Perhaps they vaguely sensed, as Fent did himself, what was
soon to follow the water’s retreat into the sea. Both armies turned about
and ran headlong up the shore road as a giant crack of thunder split the
sky and a huge storm cloud began building over the battlefield. Fent
stumbled in the sand and picked himself up, overcoming heavy legs. Was
still another god against him? If so, Fent wasn’t going to stop to worry
about it.
The fighting had now ceased on all fronts, completely, absolutely. Weapons discarded, the armies sought shelter at the acropolis of Ta-tjenen. The army of Glintz, preceded in diminishing meters by the Gostum forces, reached the citadel, followed by the rumbling of a huge tidal wave.
Fent staggered up the ruined steps that he had unsuccessfully fought to relieve for so long. Now, as a deafening roar reached up from the beach to enfold them, no one attempted to stop him. He pushed and shoved upward while a mountainous wave rose and rushed the citadel, sweeping everything from its path. Finally, with spray flying through the air, he clung to a scaly vine growing on the slopes and collapsed as the rush of water threw him off balance. He held his breath for long moments. When that gave out, he swallowed water and spat—into air. He opened his eyes. He was still alive, but the Gostum camp below him had disappeared. He looked west and saw the remains of tents and pieces of catapults being carried away by the flooding waters, snagging on the flotsam and jetsam of the obliterated command headquarters. Fent pulled himself up and joined the throngs of people—Gostum, Trieskan, and Glintzans—who were jamming into the city.
At the start of the new Bannk three teclads earlier, Paddelack had first poked his head up beyond the underground plain. He had looked about him, noted the melting snow, sniffed cautiously, and, satisfied at being alive, filled his lungs with the still-cool air. He smiled his toothy grin and pulled on the tip of his nose. Indeed, it was pleasant to be alive.
He and the Liddlefurans had spent the first teclads of the Bannk at Liddlefur, their coastal home, fishing and gathering food. When reconnaissance had shown Massarat to be deserted, Paddelack led his people back to their mountain home to prepare for the next Patra.
About halfway along the two-hundred-kilometer trek, when the hills were turning into mountains, the ground suddenly rumbled three times in succession and Paddelack was thrown off his feet. Soon screams were rising about him, and Paddelack, too, caught a glimpse of the sun. It was in the wrong place! He took another look. No, he wasn’t dreaming. His followers gathered about him in search of an explanation while the wind also gathered itself into swirling, whirling dervishes. Paddelack could only shake his head and stare back into the blank faces surrounding him.
Telclads later, another rumble was heard, this time from the coast. Paddelack turned around and a gasp rose in his throat. He frantically fished his telescope from his pack and through it watched Liddlefur disappear under the impact of a tidal wave.
Paddelack quickly shouted, Come on! Up to that
hill!
He began climbing in fury but found that his legs were not
responding. What was this? Why did he feel so heavy? Nonetheless, his will
overcame his reluctant flesh and he continued climbing.
Several telclads after that, Paddelack sat perched atop the mountain surveying, not the coastal plain that had once extended below Massarat, but a great sea, smooth in texture but for an occasional peak rising above the water. He scratched his head and chuckled to himself. It would seem that Stringer had indeed discovered something about this ridiculous planet. Good. Perhaps sometime in the future, maybe now even someday in the future, he would meet Stringer again and get the full version of the story. Paddelack chuckled once more. For the moment, at least, he was satisfied with the outcome.
Alhane wandered aimlessly throughout a shattered Ta-tjenen. He wiped the rain from his dirty face—rain of early Bannk, never before felt, rain mixed with his own tears. Was he going mad? What power did Stringer possess to cause the sun to move like that, to cause the weather to change more rapidly than it had ever changed before, to cause the waters to pile up in a great hill? Had reason gone? Had all sense taken flight? Alhane’s mind futilely grasped for logic and fell into incomprehension.
It might have been telclads later—although Alhane didn’t know what a telclad was any more—when, amid thundering and lightning, he found Effrulyn alive, leaning against the north wall. He was breathing heavily, his once glorious robe now shredded and covered with mud. Alhane hurried over to him and studied the younger man’s face for a moment until he himself began to shake. Effrulyn stared blankly in return.
What is happening to the world?
Alhane cried,
pummeling the other’s shoulders.
That has never been my concern. It was your
concern.
The words were monotonic and punctuated. Effrulyn tried to
smile but failed. Then he, too, began to shiver.
Alhane leaned against the wall and stared down at the water lapping against his feet. A whining noise that was not the veering wind made itself known above the noise of the people and brought his attention to the central plaza, where a ship was landing amid the parting throngs who gathered there and beyond. They ran over, Effrulyn clumsily in his robe, Alhane clumsily in his years, both clumsily from fatigue.
Stringer stepped to the ground as a clap of thunder burst overhead, followed by a rumble beneath his feet. The town shook. Was that an earthquake, the planet’s homologous structure adjusting to the new balance of forces?
The trembling stopped after a few moments and Stringer heard the cheers
rise about him, pulsating throbbing cheers of these people mixed with the
patter of falling rain. The crowd bowed down before him in expanding
waves. Polkraitz! Polkraitz!
He waved his hands. No. None of that. No.
He was unheard except by Valyavar, who commented in Bitter, ’Tseems to me that in some sense we might as well
be. We fulfill all the requirements, yuh?
Except the most important one—
Stringer never
finished the sentence. He spied Alhane pushing through the crowd near him,
quivering, then sinking to his knees with the others. No! Not you, Alhane!
he shouted as he ran over to
the silver-haired man. Not you,
Alhane. Please,
Stringer begged. I am not
Polkraitz. Please…
Alhane shook his head numbly. How can I conceive of
what you have done to our world? It is beyond my understanding of
anything…
Stringer held onto his friend and pulled him up by the shoulders. You must believe, Alhane, that what I did was not
magic. You may never understand it—I don’t quite myself—but your
descendants will someday. You must believe that.
I’ll try,
Alhane replied softly.
And you, too,
Stringer said to Effrulyn, who
stood behind the Time Keeper.
Effrulyn had not bowed down with the others: he was still in shock. Water
dribbled from his soiled cape. I will remain with
mathematics. It is much safer, much less disturbing, and…much less
trivial.
Alhane scowled and then broke out into laughter. To
the end, my young man, to the end,
he said, hitting Effrulyn on the
side. All right, Stringer, Polkraitz or not, you
have done what you have done.
Stringer nodded and began walking through the crowd, unsuccessfully trying
to get them to their feet. This one would touch his foot, another would bow
his head as Stringer paused, hair falling into a puddle of water. Most
would scurry out of the way, but no one would stand. Stringer started out
slowly. Get up!
he said to each in turn,
futilely attempting to lift them. Get up,
please!
Nothing. Then Neberdjer’s words came back to him; like many
things that unique being had said, they held more than a grain of truth. Don’t you see?
Stringer shouted. Don’t you understand what you are? You are all the
same—it is you who are Polkraitz, not I. Don’t you understand?
There
was no response. Please get up!
His voice
became hysterical. He began shouting more and more frantically as he
struggled with his worshipers. Why weren’t they listening? Was his voice
drowned out by the downpour? Then he spied Taljen. She was on her knees
with the others. He stepped up to her, but she flinched at his touch and
lowered her head.
So, now he was Polkraitz hero instead of Polkraitz traitor. And what was the difference? Indeed, the difference was less than the width of an ant’s eyebrow.
Taljen, you must also try to understand…
he
said finally as he took her chin in his hand and forced her eyes to meet
his.
Taljen’s only response was to jump to her feet and stumble away. Stringer followed, the crowd parting for him as he splashed along. He caught up with her as she entered the battered remains of the meeting tent. Rain fell through where the roof used to be, and beat on the ground. Taljen stood under the great map of the world which hung cockeyed from the one rope still attached to a surviving beam. Her eyes flitted from the map to Stringer and back again for a long moment. Then, with tears in her eyes, she took one last look at Stringer, broke into convulsive sobs, and fled. Stringer sighed and raised his hand to stop her, but he did not follow. He brushed aside the wet hair from his wet eyes and left the ruined Center to a dying thunderstorm.
The weather as well as the gravity began to settle down within the next few beclad-days. Every few telclads Stringer would check the pod-trees in the park. As he suspected, every night they showed a tendency to close, but they never completed the actions before the sun rose again. He came away satisfied that they would survive for some ages—even if in a state of bewilderment. The water, too, had almost receded to its normal level, leaving wet fields ripe for planting. And although it was still too early to tell, Stringer had made a bet with Valyavar that the season would be spring.
Yes,
Stringer said to Alhane in the meeting
tent, you’ll find out what a real season is, just
as you have already found out what a real day and night are. But for the
moment we have some work to do. Even with all the Gostum and everybody else
here, you haven’t been able to scrounge up enough food to survive much
longer. I think I can persuade Neberdjer, my friend at the equator, to
manufacture some food and supplies for you until you learn how to get your
farming in sequence with the new seasons. That has to be done quickly, and
perhaps some medicine, too. Maybe Neberdjer will duplicate some that I have
aboard the shuttle. I’m not a doctor and don’t know what you need, but
we’ll try.
Thank you, Stringer,
Alhane said.
And we’ll check back with you to see if the length
of the day is right or whether you want it adjusted. We can do that.
It is a powerful thing to be able to do.…Do you
realize how much more sensible it would have been to discover gravity after
you speeded up Patra-Bannk?
Easier, perhaps, but not as gratifying. You did
almost the impossible. A powerful thing to be able to do.
Alhane smiled. There are still some great
puzzles,
he said as they walked out into the afternoon sun. Effrulyn’s constant will have to be measured if we are
to determine the density of Patra-Bannk. I have an idea of how to do it,
but it requires knowing how far away Effrulyn’s home is.
Stringer chuckled to himself and gazed at the ruined sundial markings
beneath his feet, the great sundial that kept time for all of
Ta-tjenen. The metal was broken in places and tarnished by the pyres that
had burned there. Well, you won’t need this any
more, at least not with the same scales.…Effrulyn,
he called out to the
former Gostum standing nearby. Did I see a
pendulum clock at the Gostum headquarters?
Yes, the first impure thing I designed there. I’ve
never forgiven myself.
Stringer couldn’t help but laugh. Good. Then,
Alhane, I suggest you switch to constant units of time—
The clads and belclads were always constant—
Not with your clocks. Use Effrulyn’s. It’s more
accurate.
How do you know?
Effrulyn will explain the details. But since you
won’t believe him, anyway, I suggest you build one and try it yourself. You
now have more sunrises to check it against.
But,
Effrulyn interrupted, the point of my clock is that it is more accurate
than one can read the sun’s shadow.
How do you know?
Alhane asked.
By theory.
Theory! What good is that, I’d like to know? I want
something to check it against.
Against what, if it is the most accurate clock
there is?
Stringer put his hands over his ears until the two stopped arguing. Alhane,
Stringer said when finally there was
silence, Taljen…?
She can’t see you,
Alhane said, turning away.
She won’t? I understand.
She’s sick. She can’t see you even if she wanted to,
but she doesn’t want to.
Sick? Taljen has never been sick for all the time
I’ve known her.
Stringer,
Alhane said, trying not to look at
him, Taljen tried to kill herself—
What!
Stringer shouted.
I’ve never heard of such a thing at Ta-tjenen. It
has never happened before, to my knowledge.
Let me see her!
No, Stringer, I am not so sure that is a good
idea.
Let me see her!
Stringer shouted again, and
Alhane gave in. He took Stringer to the house where Taljen was lying. She
was sleeping on the mat, breathing slowly and regularly.
Is she all right?
She will be. She is just sleeping now. I am sorry,
Stringer.
Stringer shook his head. No, I’m sorry. I’m just
beginning to realize, to understand, what I must have done to her
world.
It wasn’t your fault.
Stringer glared at Alhane in anguish. Whose was
it, then? Name one other person who caused this, show me one other fact,
then I will be satisfied. But you can’t—
What point in this, Stringer?
What point? What point? How could I have been so
careless—
Stringer, you are gestating your own hell over a
missed chance. If you aren’t careful it will consume your life. Don’t let
it.
Stringer looked up abruptly. Alhane, I was going
to tell you to stop the Parlztluzan—
What? With the population decimated now to where it
was after the revolt? How else could it be kept up?
I was going to say,
Look at Glintz; be like
them.
Or I was going to point to you and Effrulyn, you who hated your
parents, Effrulyn who lives among Gostum madmen. Yes, I was even going to
say, Look at us. Maybe it is my species and not yours that is doomed by
its own exponential growth and it will be the Tjenens who survive and not
people like me. Why institute the Parlztluzan to lose your
advantage?
Stringer glanced down at Taljen. But there is
this, too. Is this what I have brought?
He sighed. I don’t know. You will have to decide for
yourselves.…
He bent to kiss the sleeping girl. Or let Taljen decide. She’ll know better than anyone
else. Of that I am sure.
Stringer and Alhane left the house and began to walk to the ship in the
cool breeze. They passed by the ruined meeting tent and entered. Stringer
stared at the map hanging cockeyed. Rage built within him. He wanted to
scream, You, you were the cause of all this!
He wanted to tear the map down and kick it into splinters and scatter the
slivers to the four corners of the world. He didn’t. Now the world didn’t
have corners. Silently, calmly, as the others looked on, he took his knife
and cut the map down. He carried it outside, past a pyre burning the
recently dead. He stopped and lifted the map above his head, high, to throw
it on the flames. He didn’t. He carried it with him to the ship.
Will you keep the name
Ta-tjenen
? Certainly
Patra-Bannk
will have to be changed.
Alhane smiled. We’ll think of something. How about
Wet and Dry
?
Stringer laughed aloud and with a wave of his hand jumped into the ship.
Barbalan greeted him with an embrace. You seem to
be a little sad,
she said, brushing away the tear on his cheek.
More than a little. I am beginning to realize some
of the mistakes I’ve made. I’m not sure if I’ve saved Ta-tjenen or wrecked
it completely.
We did what we could, my Stringer.
Did I?
We did something. It is not expected to be
perfect.
Stringer nodded. Well, next time I will do
better, with your help, I suspect. And now I—we—have some patching up to
do. First there is Ta-tjenen and then a lot of villages down the coast—if
they still exist. I’m glad almost everybody was up here for the siege, or
we might have ended up killing more people than we saved.
Now Valyavar joined in. The decision did smack of
your impetuosity, but it was made. And now we do what we can with the
results. It is good to see, at least, that you are making it up to
them.
Stringer sighed deeply and shook his head. No. You
saw what happened at the plaza when we landed. No. There is still no
fondness for me in Ta-tjenen and no fondness for Ta-tjenen in me. I wish I
could say I am feeling generous toward them. No.
Once again Stringer
took a deep breath and sighed. But that doesn’t
alter what needs to be done, does it?
Both Barbalan and Valyavar nodded. I think,
Stringer,
Barbalan said, that perhaps you
feel toward them more than you admit.
Do you expect me to be a saint—
—or a maniac?
Valyavar finished. Let’s not waste our brains pondering the
distinction. After all, we have work to do, and we eventually want to get
around to exploring this planet. Lots to find still. Unless you had planned
on heading back to Two-Bit.
Stringer chuckled. Talk about pointless
suggestions. You’re right, lots to find still. Maybe we can discover when
the Designers will show up.
A knotty one, that. God’s being somewhat
malicious these days, isn’t he?
As you said, he’s only interested in truth when it
suits him.
That reminds me. Did you ever tell Alhane or
Effrulyn that this was an artificial planet?
Stringer cocked his head and thought a moment. No,
I’m sure that I didn’t. But I suspect it won’t be too long before they
figure it out themselves. Although I could go and tell them. It would make
life easier.
No,
Valyavar said, catching Stringer by the
arm. We’ve changed things too much as it is. Now,
if God is being malicious, let them find out in their own way.
Stringer nodded. He picked up his rodoft from the seat and plucked a
chord. A song?
Barbalan and Valyavar smiled, and they all laughed again.