To Save a World

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Coming through the outskirts of the small village, next afternoon, the village where the airlift would meet us, we noted that the poorer quarter was almost deserted. Not a woman walked in the street, not a man lounged along the curbing, not a child played in the dusty squares.

  Regis said bleakly, “It’s begun,” and dropped out of line to stand in the doorway of a silent dwelling. After a minute he beckoned to me, and I looked inside.

  I wished I hadn’t. The sight would haunt me while I lived. An old man, two young women and half a dozen children between four and fifteen years old lay inside. The old man, one of the children, and one of the young women were laid out neatly in clean death, shrouded, their faces covered with green branches after the Darkovan custom for the dead. The other young woman lay huddled near the fireplace, her coarse dress splattered with the filthy stuff she had vomited, dying. The children—even now I can’t think of the children without retching. One, very small, had been in the woman’s arms when she collapsed; it had squirmed free—for a little while. The others were in an indescribable condition, and the worst of it was that one of them was still moving, feebly, long past help. Regis turned blindly from the door and leaned against the wall, his shoulders heaving—not, as I first thought, in disgust, but in grief. Tears ran over his hands and spilled down, and when I took him by the arm to lead him away, he reeled and fell against me.

  He said in a broken, blurred, choking voice, “Oh, Gods, Jason, those children, those children—if you ever had any doubts about what you’re doing, any doubts about what you’ve done, think about that, think that you’ve saved a whole world from that, think that you’ve done something even the Hasturs couldn’t do!”

  My own throat tightened with something more than embarrassment. “Better wait till we know for sure whether the Terrans can carry through with it, and you’d better get to hell away from this doorway. I’m immune, but damn it, you’re not.” But I had to take him and lead him away, like a child, from that house. He looked up into my face and said with burning sincerity, “I wonder if you believe I’d give my life, a dozen times over, to have done that?”

  It was a curious, austere reward. But vaguely it comforted me. And then, as we rode into the village itself, I lost myself, or tried to lose myself, in reassuring the frightened Trailmen who had never seen a city on the ground, never seen or heard of an airplane. I avoided Kyla. I didn’t want a final word, a farewell. We had had our farewells already.

  Forth had done a marvelous job of preparing quarters for the Trailmen, and after they were comfortably installed and reassured, I went down wearily and dressed in Jay Allison’s clothing. I looked out the window at the distant mountains and a line from the book on mountaineering, which I had bought as a youngster in an alien world, and Jay had kept as a stray fragment of personality, ran in violent conflict through my mind:

  Something hidden—go and find it…

  Something lost beyond the ranges…

  I had just begun to live. Surely I deserved better than this, to vanish when I had just discovered life. Did the man who did not know how to live, deserve to live at all? Jay Allison—that cold man who had never looked beyond any ranges—why should I be lost in him?

  Something lost beyond the ranges—nothing would be lost but myself. I was beginning to loathe the overflown sense of duty which had brought me back here. Now, when it was too late, I was bitterly regretting—Kyla had offered me life. Surely I would never see Kyla again.

  Could I regret what I would never remember? I walked into Forth’s office as if I were going to my doom. I was—

  Forth greeted me warmly.

  “Sit down and tell me all about it,” he insisted. I would rather not have spoken. Instead, compulsively, I made it a full report—and curious flickers came in and out of my consciousness as I spoke. By the time I realized I was reacting to a post-hypnotic suggestion, that in fact I was going under hypnosis again, it was too late and I could only think that this was worse than death because in a way I would be alive.

  Jay Allison sat up and meticulously straightened his cuff before tightening his mouth in what was meant for a smile. “I assume, then, that the experiment was a success?”

  “A complete success.” Perth’s voice was somewhat harsh and annoyed, but Jay was untroubled; he had known for years that most of his subordinates and superiors disliked him, and had long ago stopped worrying about it.

  “The Trailmen agreed?”

  “They agreed,” Forth said, surprised. “You don’t remember anything at all?”

  “Scraps. Like a nightmare.” Jay Allison looked down at the back of his hand, flexing the fingers cautiously against pain, touching the partially healed red slash. Forth followed the direction of his eyes and said, not unsympathetically, “Don’t worry about your hand. I looked at it pretty carefully. You’ll have total use of it.”

  Jay said rigidly, “It seems to have been a pretty severe risk to take. Did you ever stop to think what it would have meant to me, to lose the use of it?”

  “It seemed a justifiable risk, even if you had,” Forth said dryly. “Jay, I’ve got the whole story on tape, just as you told it to me. You might not like having a blank spot in your memory. Want to hear what your alter ego did?”

  Jay hesitated. Then he unfolded his long legs and stood up. “No, I don’t think I care to know.” He waited, arrested by a twinge of a sore muscle, and frowned.

  What had happened, what would he never know, why did the random ache bring a pain deeper than the pain of a torn nerve? Forth was watching him, and Jay asked irritably, “What is it?”

  “You’re one hell of a cold fish, Jay.”

  “I don’t understand you, sir.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Forth muttered. “Funny. I liked your subsidiary personality.”

  Jay’s mouth contracted in a mirthless grin.

  “You would,” he said, and swung quickly around.

  “Come on. If I’m going to work on that serum project I’d better inspect the volunteers and line up the blood donors and look over old whatshisname’s papers.”

  But beyond the window the snowy ridges of the mountain, inscrutable, caught and held his eye; a riddle and a puzzle—

  “Ridiculous,” he said, and went to his work.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FOUR MONTHS LATER, Jay Allison and Randall Forth stood together, watching the last of the disappearing planes, carrying the volunteers back toward Carthon and their mountains.

  “I should have flown back to Carthon with them,” Jay said moodily. Forth watched the tall man stare at the mountain; wondered what lay behind the contained gestures and the brooding.

  He said, “You’ve done enough, Jay. You’ve worked like the devil. Thurmond, the Legate, sent down to say you’d get an official commendation and a promotion for your part. That’s not even mentioning what you did in the Trailmen’s city.” He put a hand on his colleague’s shoulder, but Jay shook it off impatiently.

  All through the work of isolating and testing the blood fraction, Jay had worked tirelessly and unsparingly; scarcely sleeping, but brooding; silent, prone to fly into sudden savage rages, but painstaking. He had overseen the Trailmen with an almost fatherly solicitude—but from a distance. He had left no stone unturned for their comfort—but refused to see them in person except when it was unavoidable.

  Forth thought, we played a dangerous game. Jay Allison had made his own adjustment to life, and we disturbed that balance. Have we wrecked the man? He’s expendable, but damn it, what a loss! He asked, “Well, why didn’t you fly back to Carthon with them? Kendricks went along, you know. He expected you to go until the last minute.”

  Jay did not answer. He had avoided Kendricks, the only witness to his duality. In all his nightmare brooding, the avoidance of anyone who had known him as Jason became a mania. Once, meeting Rafe Scott on the lower floor of the HQ, he had turned frantically and plunged like a madman through halls and corridors, to avoid coming face to face with the man, final
ly running up four flights of stairs and taking shelter in his rooms, with the pounding heart and bursting veins of a hunted criminal. At last he said, “If you’ve called me down here to give me hell about not wanting to make another trip into the Hellers—!”

  “No, no,” Forth said equably, “there’s a visitor coming. Regis Hastur sent word he wants to see you. In case you don’t remember him, he was on Project Jason—”

  “I remember,” Jay said grimly. It was nearly his one clear memory—the nightmare of the ledge, his slashed hand, the naked body of the Darkovan woman, —and blurring these things, the too-handsome Darkovan aristocrat who had banished him for Jason again. “He’s a better psychiatrist than you are, Forth. He changed me into Jason in the flicker of an eyelash, and it took you half a dozen hypnotic sessions.”

  “I’ve heard about the psi powers of the Hasturs,” Forth said, “but I’ve never been lucky enough to meet one in person. Tell me about it. What did he do?”

  Jay made a tight movement of exasperation, too controlled for a shrug. “Ask him, why don’t you. Look, Forth, I don’t much care to see him. I didn’t do it for Darkover; I did it because it was my job. I’d prefer to forget the whole thing. Why don’t you talk to him?”

  “I rather had the idea that he wanted to see you personally. Jay, you did a tremendous thing, man! Damn it, why don’t you strut a little? Be—be normal for once! Why, I’d be damned near bursting with pride if one of the Hasturs insisted on congratulating me personally!”

  Jay’s lip twitched, and his voice shook with controlled exasperation. “Maybe you would. I don’t see it that way.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to. On Darkover nobody refuses when the Hasturs make a request— and certainly not a request as reasonable as this one.” Forth sat down beside the desk. Jay struck the woodwork with a violent clenched fist and when he lowered his hand there was a tiny smear of blood along his knuckles. After a minute he walked to the couch and sat down, very straight and stiff, saying nothing. Neither of the men spoke again until Forth started at the sound of a buzzer, drew the mouthpiece toward him, and said, “Tell him we are honored—you know the routine for dignitaries, and send him up here.”

  Jay twisted his fingers together and ran his thumb, in a new gesture, over the ridge of scar tissue along the knuckles. Forth was aware of an entirely new quality in the silence, and started to speak to break it, but before he could do so, the office door slid open on its silent beam, and Regis Hastur stood there.

  Forth rose courteously and Jay got to his feet like a mechanical doll jerked on strings. The young Darkovan ruler smiled engagingly at him.

  “Don’t bother, this visit is informal; that’s the reason I came here rather than inviting you both to the Tower. Dr. Forth? It is a pleasure to meet you again, sir. I hope that our gratitude to you will soon take a more tangible form. There has not been a single death from the Trailmen’s fever since you made the serum available.”

  Jay, motionless, saw bitterly that the old man had succumbed to the youngster’s deliberate charm. The chubby, wrinkled old face seamed up in a pleased smile as Forth said, “The gifts sent to the Trailmen in your name, Lord Hastur, were greatly welcomed.”

  “Do you think that any of us will ever forget what they have done?” Regis replied. He turned toward the window and smiled rather tentatively at the man who stood there motionless since his first conventional gesture of politeness.

  “Dr. Allison, do you remember me at all?”

  “I remember you,” Jay Allison said sullenly.

  His voice hung heavily in the room, its sound a miasma in his ears. All his sleepless, nightmare-charged brooding, all his bottled hate for Darkover and the memories he had tried to bury, erupted into overwrought bitterness against this too-ingratiating youngster who was a demigod on this world and who had humiliated him, repudiated him for the hated Jason. For Jay, Regis had suddenly become the symbol of a world that hated him, forced him into a false mould.

  A black and rushing wind seemed to blur the room. He said hoarsely, “I remember you all right,” and took one savage, hurtling step.

  The weight of the unexpected blow spun Regis around, and the next moment Jay Allison, who had never touched another human being except with the remote hands of healing, closed steely, murderous hands around Regis’ throat. The world thinned out into a crimson rage. There was shouting, and sudden noises, and a red-hot explosion in his brain…

  “You’d better drink this,” Forth remarked, and I realized I was turning a paper cup in my hands. Forth sat down, a little weakly, as I raised it to my lips and sipped. Regis took his hand away from his throat and said huskily, “I could use some of that, doctor.”

  I put the whisky down. “You’ll do better with water until your throat muscles are healed,” I said swiftly, and went to fill a throwaway cup for him, without thinking. Handing it to him, I stopped in sudden dismay and my hand shook, spilling a few drops. I said hoarsely, swallowing, “—but drink it, anyway.”

  Regis got a few drops down, painfully, and said, “My own fault. The moment I saw—Jay Allison—I knew he was a madman. I’d have stopped him sooner only he took me by surprise.”

  “But—you say him—I’m Jay Allison,” I said, and then my knees went weak and I sat down. “What in hell is this? I’m not Jay—but I’m not Jason, either—”

  I could remember my entire life, but the focus had shifted. I still felt the old love, the old nostalgia for the Trailmen; but I also knew, with a sure sense of identity, that I was Doctor Jason Allison, Jr., who had abandoned mountain climbing and become a specialist in Darkovan parasitology. Not Jay who had rejected the world; not Jason who had been rejected by it. But then who?

  Regis said quietly, “I’ve seen you before—once. When you knelt to the Old One of the Trailmen.” With a whimsical smile he said, “As an ignorant superstitious Darkovan, I’d say that you were a man who’d balanced his god and daemon for once.”

  I looked helplessly at the young Hastur. A few seconds ago my hands had been at his throat. Jay or Jason, maddened by self-hate and jealousy, could disclaim responsibility for the other’s acts.

  I couldn’t.

  Regis said, “We could take the easy way out, and arrange it so we’d never have to see each other again. Or we could do it the hard way.” He extended his hand, and after a minute, I understood, and we shook hands briefly, like strangers who have just met. He added, “Your work with the Trailmen is finished, but we Hasturs committed ourselves to teach some of the Terrans our science—matrix mechanics. Dr. Allison—Jason—you know Darkover, and I think we could work with you. Further, you know something about slipping mental gears. I meant to ask: would you care to be one of them? You’d be ideal.”

  I looked out the window at the distant mountains. This work—this would be something which would satisfy both halves of myself. The irresistible force, the immovable object—and no ghosts wandering in my brain. “I’ll do it,” I told Regis. And then, deliberately, I turned my back on him and went up to the quarters, now deserted, which we had readied for the Trailmen. With my new doubled—or complete—memories, another ghost had roused up in my brain, and I remembered a woman who had appeared vaguely in Jay Allison’s orbit, unnoticed, working with the Trailmen, tolerated because she could speak their language. I opened the door, searched briefly through the rooms, and shouted, “Kyla!” and she came. Running. Disheveled. Mine.

  At the last moment, she drew back a little from my arms and whispered, “You’re Jason—but you’re something more. Different—”

  “I don’t know who I am,” I said quietly, “but I’m me. Maybe for the first time. Want to help me find out just who that is?”

  I put my arm around her, trying to find a path between memory and tomorrow. All my life, I had walked a strange road toward an unknown horizon. Now, reaching my horizon, I found it marked only the rim of an unknown country.

  Kyla and I would explore it together.

  THE WATERFALL
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br />   The lady Sybil-Mhari, fifteen years old and as frail as a branch of willow, stood at the edge of an enclosed courtyard, staring with pensive gray eyes into the valley, flooded with the strange moonlight of the four moons. A low wall of stone, barely knee-high, was the only thing dividing the court where she stood from a steep, sheer and hazardous cliff that dropped away sharply to a raging, foaming torrent of white water that fell, nearly a thousand feet, into the valley. The muffled roar of water beneath her, and the cold moon-flooded night, cut through her with the dampness that rose from the waterfall far below, seemed to tremble hotly in her young body, twisting a thick lump in her throat, a feeling that was like hunger or thirst—or something else… Something she could not even guess; a hunger, a loneliness, for something she had never known.

  Love? No. Her waiting-women chattered and squealed of love continually, whispering together, giggling confidences of stolen kisses and furtive touches, of seeking hands in the darkness, of courtly verses and songs. And for a little while Sybil had believed it was, indeed, love for which she hungered; but as confidences had grown more definite, they had evoked neither excitement nor longing, but only a shudder of disgust. What—she, Sybil-Mhari Aillard, comynara, the delicate and queenly little sister of the Lord Ludovic, lonely and perfect as a single star, to surrender herself to these hungry indecencies? She, born into the caste of Comyn, apart and above, bearing—so the common folk said—the blood of Gods, she to swoon in the arms of some clumsy esquire, to lend herself to secret kissings, fumbling fingers, whispered words of love, in corridor or hall or chapel? No. And no. The hunger that was in her was surely for something other than this; it was as a burning fire seeking fuel, and these huggings and clutchings were damp and commonplace, smothering instead of feeding the flame.