Various Fiction

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by Robert Sheckley


  He fought the pull that dragged at him. He ceased to fall. Above him was the east and below the west and behind him there was the sky and before him the very shore-line of the Gulf of Orea. But he would not fall farther. He would not! Because there was no reward for his falling.

  His non-existence would not keep the Cloud-People from forming the thinnest of mists above Mwyrland, in which people aged overnight, when the mist was thin, and then between sunrise and even-fall, when it grew thicker, and then in fractions of an hour when the cloud was at its densest.

  If he were not ever born, the army of the City would still sally forth valiantly to do battle with the Cloud-People, and never return. The mist over Mwyrland would spread slowly out over the water, and cover the rocky volcanic island halfway to shore, and move forward to the City.

  If he were never to exist, still someone—not he, but someone—would desperately demand counsel of the Prophetess on how the Cloud-People could be vanquished, and she would send him to Mwyrland as she’d sent Ban, alone. And he would die and ultimately the towers of the City would be filled with mist. Then the Cloud-People with their singing voices would drift about the wetted structures and only a few men would remain out on the Heath, forgetting that men had ever built cities or flown among the clouds.

  These things would happen despite his sacrifice. But Ban had ventured greatly in defense of the City, because he was the Warden’s son and it was his obligation. He was still the Warden’s son, and it was still his obligation to defend the City. This sacrifice would do no good to the race of men. He would not sacrifice himself to extend the dank domain of the Cloud-People! He would not!

  He cursed, and wept with rage because his curses were in a shrill treble voice, and he was a small and naked child in whom a man’s mind inexplicably functioned, and because he stood alone against time and space and destiny and there was no one to help him in what he must accomplish. Must!

  “I won’t do it!” he cried in his child’s high voice to the world and the sky and the sea about him. “I won’t do it!” he cried fiercely to the galaxy. “You can’t make me!” he cried to the universe itself. “Unless you make it save the City I won’t do it!” he cried to all creation. But oddly enough he thought of a girl in the Oracles, who had looked wistfully at him when he was a tall, virile young man.

  There was no reply. He clenched his child’s fists and pipingly defied all time and space and destiny:

  “I won’t!—won’t! won’t!—won’t!”

  Part Five

  By Robert Bloch

  The warp was widening. Time and Space had lost coalescence in a disintegrating cosmos. The Prophetess had predicted, the Knower suspected, but only one man had full knowledge, full realization. And shrilled his ultimate defiance against the ultimate extinction of all things—Ban, in his child’s body, tangled in the loosening web of Time and Space, keening, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!”

  Only one man, and he helpless.

  One man—and one other.

  It was not man, nor beast; neither male nor female, but both and more than both. The machine which had been created on 3Bcc and vanished, was dedicated to a mission. And that mission involved neither instinct nor emotion. It was the pure, objective goal of cosmic survival.

  Unfettered by tri- or quadri-dimensional laws of Time and Space, it moved freely through the universe as a random entity. All choice was its portion, all sentience and sensation was there to sample. But the machine was seeking the focal point, the focal point of weakness wherein it must function.

  And its initial data was limited.

  Perceptivity came slowly. First came the knowledge of weakness—a learned acquisition, for the machine had no initial referents. Then came the dimly-intuited associations.

  The cosmos was a maze. Somewhere in the maze there was a flaw, threatening the entire structure. Problem: find a way through the maze to the flaw. Clue: personify awareness of distress.

  On these vague premises the dedicated entity acted, and localized isolated instances; computing and discarding on the basis of intensity, probing for full comprehension.

  Two images emerged, two clues to aid in the search. The machine established them as voices.

  “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!”

  First the voice was an interior echo. The machine sought to personify it. The only data which came through was ambiguous enough, and in the form of a single, simple impression—redhead.

  Redhead.

  Where in the universe was the redhead in distress? Another mechanism moved into full operation—and the machine found itself foundering upon the sandy ocean floor of the planet Hiallo, contemplating the red head of a crustacean which rested there, snapped clean from the lifeless body.

  The cry had not come from here.

  And yet it echoed, was still echoing, for in the Oracles the nameless neophyte who loved Ban could hear his call; she pressed her hands to her head, tangling her fingers in the red locks as his cry came to her. “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!”

  The machine sensed her presence now, but simultaneously a stronger image came—not the echo-emanation but the source of the call itself.

  A yellow-haired man.

  The machine blurred and left the ocean bed of Hiallo. It was on Terra now, in Germania’s tangled forest, perceiving the battle. Perceiving, and perceived. For yellow-haired Marcellus glimpsed it.

  Marcellus—was this the entity the machine sought? It sensed no danger to the cosmos here, only individual destruction, and yet it could not be sure. There was more data to be gleaned. It followed Marcellus, waited for him in the wood. And it assumed substance and beckoned Marcellus with a whisper. Marcellus awaited it, armed with a puny branch.

  The machine probed. Here was fear and courage, commingled in defiance. Marcellus did not want to die, but his thought was wholly self-centered. It was his danger and his alone which prompted him. And “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!” had not emanated from this yellow-haired biped.

  So this was not the area of threat.

  The machine moved from Terra, probing again. The keening cry existed. The keening crier existed. Existed in an area of almost non-existence.

  Images and impressions multiplied. A fog, and a singing. A hairy, ugly man pacing the entrance to a tall edifice. A cold-eyed female in prayer. A moist-eyed female (redhead? yes!) in supplicating agony. An amorphous presence, a Knower, drained of all but dread.

  All of them caught, caught in the maze. And the maze itself disintegrating. Yes, the cosmic threat was here, in this area. In this non-area. For that was what it was becoming, as Time and Space twisted and tore, and only one faint voice defied eternal termination with “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!”

  The voice of a yellow-haired biped.

  On land?

  On sea?

  In the air?

  The machine probed. Probed land that was scarcely land, as Space sundered. Searched a sea that was now sky and mist and fog commingled. Roamed air that was truly empty—empty of all dimensional interrelationship.

  The machine sought the source of the sole remaining strength; the awareness of extinction which still rebelled against the knowledge of its own ending.

  And it came to Ban; came to the ridiculous child-body twisting and turning in a loosening Limbo where north, south, east, west, down, up, forward and back whirled free of all relationships.

  The machine sensed the problem and the solution. It communicated with Ban using neither word nor image, merely direction in the form of reinforcing Ban’s own survival-urge.

  Suddenly Ban felt the strength surge back to implement his defiance. He began to move, to grow. He would become himself once more. And give himself up to the gap, to heal the breach between Time and Space. When he was properly timevy, he would be fixed in the balancing-area, forever, so that the universe could stabilize.

  There was no right, no wrong, no alternative at all to consider. This was his purpose, his function. Where the new-found res
olution came from was not even a question; nor was the source of his sudden power to act.

  He became Ban.

  And being Ban, he had only to remain fixed, forever fixed in this Limbo beyond Space and Time, so that the balances he had disturbed would be restored.

  It meant an end to living, an end to consciousness, and end to self-awareness. But it was meaningful sacrifice, and worthy of the son of a Warden. Even if he would no longer know himself to be the son of a Warden. Even if he would no longer retain consciousness of squat Urmuz or the beautiful nameless one who waited (would wait forever, now, and in vain) inside the Oracles.

  Ban was the sacrifice, his was the dedication. He felt consciousness spin away. For a moment there was a physical twinge of regret, but then the physical awareness left him, and the regret was purely psychic. He would cease to be, and that was right; yet he had lost the final battle. For in the end, this wouldn’t alter the inexorable course of events. The cosmos would persist, but for how long? Only until the Cloud-People invaded his city and the Heaths beyond. Then the extinction would proceed until all was engulfed in nothingness. For Time would devour Space.

  So it was a delaying-action, at best, this sacrifice he was making. But it must be done. He must surrender himself, lose himself in the whirling, for he was dedicated—

  Dedicated.

  The machine observed, registered. Something was wrong. Ban was not dedicated. Dedication was the machine’s function.

  Ban must not usurp its place.

  The machine could heal. And it must communicate, quickly, establish a relationship with Ban before he was irrevocably lost in the elemental Limbo.

  “Ban—come back!”

  Then the directive came, implemented by action. The machine lifted, grasped, transported.

  Ban awoke to blinking awareness, standing upon the terrace beside the black bulk of the Oracles. He felt the firmness beneath his feet, sensed his proper physical-temporal relationship with Alpha, The Needle, the distant Arsenal.

  He was himself again.

  But for how long?

  Something had snatched him from the jaws of sacrifice. But the jaws still gaped. Far away was the sea and the mist. Beyond that the Cloud-People hovered. Hovered closer and closer. Nothing had changed.

  Nothing had changed, because he had failed.

  Urmuz emerged from the shadows, breathless.

  “You left me behind, sir—I was looking everywhere—” His face worked. “She told me—”

  The girl with the great gray eyes stirred in the shadows behind the burly man.

  Ban faced them, nodding slowly. “Yes, I went alone.” He shrugged. “And to no avail. There is no way to conquer the strength of the Cloud-People. Man cannot conquer Time.”

  “But I don’t understand, sir—tell us what happened—” Urmuz stared at Ban helplessly. Then his eyes fell. “I suppose it’s no use talking.”

  Ban nodded. “No use talking,” he echoed. “The end will come soon.”

  The girl stepped forward. She walked proudly, bearing a gift in her great gray eyes. Ban saw it there, and found the exultation of ecstasy even in despair. His hands went out to claim the gift, and she was in his arms, her hair enveloping his shoulders in a red caress. So we die, Ban told himself. But first, even for a moment, we live—

  “Hold!”

  The voice that was not a voice came from the face that was not a face.

  Ban stepped back, releasing the girl. She turned to stare, as he and Urmuz stared, at the apparition of the Prophetess.

  “I heard,” she said.

  Ban squared his shoulders. “Then what does it matter?” he countered. “You know time has run out for all of us. Let the girl be. Give us the last few moments that remain.”

  “Captain Ban.” The beautiful accents were measured. “You spoke of failure. Of this you need not be ashamed, for I am aware that you fought hard, even to the point of giving up the ultimate essence of identity.”

  “I tried,” Ban murmured. “I failed.”

  “To fail is one thing. To surrender, another.” The tones were even. “You are a soldier. Even now, with the battle lost, you cannot capitulate. You cannot flee, as you seek to flee, into the oblivion of momentary sensation. This girl is dedicated to the Covenant of the Oracles, just as you are dedicated to Wardenship of this City.”

  “I cannot stop the Cloud-People,” Ban replied. “Time is too strong.”

  Urmuz stirred restlessly. “What do you want us to do?” he grumbled.

  The Prophetess faced him. Something in her face—or what radiated from it and obscured it—caused the squat man to bow his head.

  “I—I meant no disrespect, Prophetess,” he muttered. “But the Captain’s right. We are finished. What can we do now?”

  “We can function as we were meant to function. We can observe the enemy. Watch and wait.” A beautiful hand rose and beckoned. “Come with me.”

  Together they moved into the many-vaulted vastness of the Oracles. Together they sank down before the table as the Prophetess took her place behind it and bowed her head. For a moment, silence. The long, meaningful silence which is a prelude to extinction.

  Almost Ban could see the clouds gathering and moving towards them; the Cloud-People were swirling before the sea and city, as Time moved forward to devour Space. Almost Ban could sense the death of the world as he knew it.

  And then he could see, could sense.

  For a cloud was with them now; the Prophetess, Urmuz, the girl could see it, too. It hovered in the vaulted archways above, and it emanated from the lovely hands upon the table-top.

  The Prophetess had conjured up the final vision . . .

  Once again Ban gazed upon the desolate shores where the shimmering clouds hovered. He thought he recognized the shape he had come to think of as the Knower, but he could not be sure. For there were thousands of shapes; thousands upon thousands of swirling semi-solid shadows, lambent and yet unillumined, obtuse and opaque. They were not merely hovering, they were converging now—converging upon a common goal.

  It might have been a machine there in the sky, but it was not an artifact Ban recognized. It might have been a gigantic ship, designed to transport those who had not mastered flight by wing. It might have been a living entity, functioning to attract the Cloud-People.

  Ban and the others did not know. But they could perceive what it was doing—incredibly, inexorably, it lured the cloud-shapes to its side. And a myriad whirring slits opened and engulfed them. The cloud-shapes disappeared, incorporated into the shining, shimmering sphere. The object was now a gigantic, blinding blur, and Ban could not look upon it, even in prophetic image.

  He wrenched his eyes away, stared down at the Prophetess, seeking to fathom her face.

  And now, suddenly, her face was a blinding blur, mirroring the machine.

  The non-voice spoke.

  “Fear not. Time is conquered. The Cloud-People, as you know them, are willing to depart. For they know that there is no future for them here. Their Time can devour our Space, but by the very nature of the act, the cosmos will be destroyed. I have told them so, and they have agreed that their place is in a cosmos of their own. I shall transport them there. That is my purpose, the function to which I am dedicated.”

  “But—who are you?”

  “An instrument. An instrument serving one purpose—survival. I have served here in many ways. As Knower of the Cloud-People. As Prophetess, to your humanity. Now my service here is ended.”

  Ban glanced upwards and away. The gigantic vision was fading—and within it, the gigantic machine was blurring, too—

  He tore his eyes from the incredible and searched the features of the Prophetess. The features that were fading now as the machine faded.

  The lovely, lulling voice was fainter, too. But Ban could still hear it as it spoke.

  “You thought you had failed, Captain Ban. But you did not fail. My mission was to save the cosmos, but I could not function until I found the focal poi
nt. And that focal point was in your strength, your human defiance of all destiny. It was your voice, crying, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!” that guided me, brought me here. I go now, forever from your cosmos and your consciousness. But there is no need for me any longer. The Covenant is ended. I leave you with all you require to survive—your humanity, which is your strength.”

  The voice blurred, the vision blurred, the Prophetess blurred.

  And then there were only the three of them—the squat, shaken man, the quiet, trembling girl, and the yellow-haired warrior in an empty, vaulted chamber.

  “I don’t understand,” said Urmuz.

  “I do,” murmured the girl.

  “I’ll try,” said Ban.

  Together, the three of them walked back into the garden.

  The sun was shining, as far as the eye could see.

  “Dream?” muttered Urmuz.

  “Reality,” the girl affirmed.

  “Perhaps both,” Ban nodded. He paused. “If, somewhere, sometime, someone perfected a mechanism dedicated to saving the universe—and if it directed itself to us—”

  “Foolishness!” Urmuz was scowling.

  “But the Cloud-People are gone. We’re safe. You know that, don’t you?” the girl persisted.

  “Yes. And I’m going to do something sensible about it—in the nearest tavern.” Urmuz turned. “Coming, sir?”

  Ban shook his head, moving closer to the girl.

  Urmuz shrugged and moved down the dappled sunlight of the path.

  For a moment Ban stared down into the great gray eyes—so cool a contrast to the red radiance of the haloing hair.

  “You heard what she—it—said,” he whispered. “The Covenant is ended.”

  She nodded gravely.

  “That means there is no need for the Oracles. The future need not be foreseen; it is in our hands.”

  His hands reached for hers and she did not draw away.

 

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