by John Norman
Then there would be nothing to keep them there.
The compound, deserted, would fall into disrepair and ruin, and the dry wind would blow across a simple grave.
The adventure was ended. The experiment had failed. Herjellsen had lived in vain.
It was then that Hamilton saw them, the young couple. They were entering. They were seeking a table.
She felt faint, and held to the edge of her own table.
They sat not far from her, arguing. The girl looked not unlike Flower. There was something subtle, about the eyes, the mouth, that reminded her of Flower, but her eyes, stunned, could see little of the woman, for the body, the face, of the young man, half blurred, seem to swim in the center of her vision, and all else about, ringing his shoulders and head, and face, seemed dark, vague, meaningless, peripheral to the central reality dominating her focus; slowly the image formed itself, sure, precise, bright, startling. Hamilton caught her breath. The world seemed to swirl about her, turning about that face and shoulders, and then stopped. There could be no mistake. She sobbed. She wanted to reach out, to touch him. But she knew she must not.
Slowly, in snatches, she caught the conversation, between them. She did not understand all of it, for her Danish was poor, but she understood its purport, its themes.
There was silver to be bought, for table settings. There was a shop where furniture might be purchased. Already she had located an apartment. She must show it to him. His studies were completed. He wished to spend a year at sea. He was not ready. That was foolish. In her father's company a place was waiting for him. His position was secure. She loved him. He would rise in the business. In time they would be wealthy.
Hamilton paid little attention to what they said. Mostly she could not take her eyes from the boy. She wanted to go to him with her fingers to lightly brush the blond hair from the side of his neck. He had taken off his student's cap, and put it on the table. He was saying, he did not wish now to do something. He did not know how to speak to her.
She was impatient. Did he not love her? He must make his decision. He spoke of further studies. There was no money in such things. He wished to do advanced work. He wished to think. He wanted to go to sea. Later perhaps he would return to the university. He spoke of astronomy, physics.
If you do not do what I wish, she was saying, I will leave you. You must decide, she said. If you love me, you will please me. If you do not do what I wish, she was saying, I will leave. I will leave you. She was adamant.
Hamilton saw the boy's eyes become agonized.
He looked up.
"Forgive me," said Hamilton, softly, in English, "I do not mean to intrude."
The girl looked angrily at her. What did she want, this strange woman? Indeed she was intruding!
The young man stood. He seemed startled.
"No," said Hamilton, softly, "you do not know me. But I know you."
"Tell her to go away," said the girl.
The young man, puzzled, somehow shaken, regarded Hamilton. He did not tell her to go away.
"Forgive me," said Hamilton. Then, very slowly, with incredible tenderness, she lifted the hair away from the side of his neck. "Forgive me," she whispered, and kissed the mark which lay below his left ear.
"I do not understand," he said, slowly, in English.
"I love you," said Hamilton. "That is all."
"Come away!" said the girl to him, in Danish. Then she repeated the imperative, insistently, in English, that Hamilton would clearly understand. She took him by the hand. He shook loose her hand, angrily. He looked down at Hamilton.
"I love you," said Hamilton.
"I do not know you," he said, very slowly.
"No," smiled Hamilton. "You do not know me."
"Who are you?" he asked.
She smiled. "Your mother," she said.
The blond girl cried out with irritation.
"No," smiled the young man. "You are not my mother."
"I am, and I am not," said Hamilton. "I am the mother of the mothers, the mother of the sons." The blond girl snorted with irritation. Hamilton smiled. "No," she said, "I am not insane, though you cannot understand how I should speak like this, and that not be so. I do not mind. Regard me as you will. It does not matter. What matters is you, and the stars. Be true unto your mightiness, and do not forget the stars."
He looked at her strangely.
"But," said Hamilton, "I speak foolishly. You can never forget them, for the call of the stars, their heat, their light, lies within your blood. Into your blood and bones, though you do not understand how this can be, the seeking of the stars is bred. It was the intention of a man you do not know, called Herjellsen. You will not relinquish infinity, my love, my son. It is your destiny. Seek the stars."
Then Hamilton stood back from the young man, proudly. She drew herself up and pointed to him. When she spoke, it was in the language of the Men. "Here, Tree," she said, "is my son." "Here, Tree," she said, "is your son. Do not laugh, Tree. He is your son and mine. And you would, as I, find him pleasing." Then she addressed herself to the young man. She looked upon him fiercely. Again she spoke in the language of the Men. "Make the hunters proud of you!" she said.
He stood, startled.
"Come away from this madwoman!" said the blond girl, seizing him by the hand.
Again he, angrily, shook away her hand. She was furious.
"I will tell you of your heritage," said Hamilton to the young man. She spoke in English. "I will speak briefly. It is simple, and it is deep. It is this. In your veins lies the blood of hunters, and masters."
He looked at her.
"Come away!" cried the blond girl.
"This female," said Hamilton, pointing to the girl, "belongs in a collar at your feet."
The girl's fingers inadvertently touched her own throat.
"If she pleases you," said Hamilton, "keep her. If she does not please you, discard her. If you keep her, keep her on your terms, not hers. Enslaved, she will adore you; freed, she will kill you."
"Be quiet, madwoman!" screamed the girl. She turned to the boy. "Nils!" she said.
"In your veins," said Hamilton to the boy, "flows the blood of hunters and masters. Make them proud of you."
He regarded her.
"Seek the stars," she said to him.
"I will," he said. He turned about to leave, and then turned back, to look again at Hamilton. "Good-bye," he said.
"Good-bye," whispered Hamilton. "Nils!" cried the girl.
He had turned away and was walking away, crossing the wide pavement. He moved rapidly. There were tears in Hamilton's eyes. The walk was not unlike that of Tree.
"Nils!" cried the girl. Then she turned, furiously, to Hamilton. "What have you done?" she cried.
"I have met my son," said Hamilton, "one who is of the Men, a son of sons of sons. And I am the mother, and I have seen him. The hunters are not dead."
"Nils!" cried the girl. He did not turn.
"My father," said the girl, "will not understand. What of the business? He is holding a position for him!"
"Your father," said Hamilton, "is not your master." She looked after the young man. "He is," said Hamilton.
"How will we live!" wailed the girl.
"As he wishes," said Hamilton, indicating the young man, small now in the distance.
"I love him," cried the girl. "I will not lose him! I love him!"
"He is sovereign," said Hamilton. "If you would be his, you will be his on his terms, and his alone."
The young woman fled from Hamilton's side, pursuing the young man.
Far away, she saw her, stumbling, reach him. He turned to regard her. Hamilton saw the girl, it seemed as natural as the falling of rain or the turning and opening of a flower, kneel before him, placing herself, and her pride, at his feet. She saw the young man lift her gently to her feet, and, holding her, regard her. Then he removed his belt and looped it about her throat, more than once, and then, tightly, under her chin, buckled it. She wore
about her throat his belt, as a collar marking her his, as a symbol of his authority over her. Then their lips met.
"Good-bye," whispered Hamilton, "my son."
35
Hamilton stood beside the dusty grave in the bush country. It was not more than four hundred yards from the compound. There was grit in the air, carried by the wind. There was a quite simple marker, a white board some two feet in length, some one by six inches, driven into the dry earth at the head of the grave. Some stones were set about the board, reinforcing it in the ground. Gunther had, in German script, small, precise, written on the board the name 'Herjellsen'. William, below it, in Roman script, once the language of gladiatiors and Caesars, had added an inscription.
Hamilton threw her head back and stood beside the grave, fists clenched. "Herjellsen! Herjellsen!" she cried. "There was another child! There was another child!"
"I think he knew," said William.
Hamilton looked at him.
"Before he died," said William, Gunther standing silently behind him, "he opened the chamber."
"It had to be open," said Hamilton. There had been no doubt in her mind that it would be open. She had seen, in Denmark, that there had been another child.
"Herjellsen," said the large black, Chaka, "gave me this for you." From his shirt he drew forth a yellow envelope. Beside the grave Hamilton opened it. She read it, and gave it to William and Gunther, that they, too, might read it.
"Gunther," said Hamilton.
He looked down at her.
"Find a woman, Gunther," said Hamilton.
Gunther shook his head.
"The hunters are not dead, Gunther," said Hamilton. "In your veins, as in those of others, flows the blood of hunters."
"No," said Gunther. "Not in mine." He shook his head, sadly.
"You are wrong, Gunther," she said.
"I died," said Gunther, "thousands of years ago."
"You are not dead, Gunther," said Hamilton. "It is only that you, like many others, do not know you are alive."
He looked at her strangely.
"There is work to be done," said Hamilton. "Herjellsen would have expected it."
"I can no longer think, no longer work," he said.
"Find a woman," said Hamilton. "Find the strongest, the most intelligent, the finest, the most beautiful, the noblest, the most proud, and then, in your arms, make her your slave, and breed great children on her."
Hamilton looked up into the eyes of Gunther.
"Your seed," said she, "and that of William, and Chaka, and mine, and the others, that of us all, will meet a thousand years from now among the stars."
"It was the intention of Herjellsen," said William.
"There are possibilities," said Gunther. "Some are practical with modest technological developments. Others are interesting also."
"We do not know, as of today," said William, "if the light barrier may be broken."
"We know," said Gunther, "that velocities beyond the speed of light have been obtained by certain particles under laboratory conditions. This is a small beginning, and perhaps will have few practical consequences. It does, however, demonstrate that velocities greater than those of light are feasible."
"Dimensions, too," said William, "exist other than those in which we commonly think."
"We may not find the answer," said Gunther, "but if we do not find it, or this century does not find it, someday, somewhere, somehow, if only men continue to search, and care, it will be found." He looked at Hamilton. "I will be one of those who searches," said he to Hamilton.
"You see, Gunther," she said, "the hunters live."
"I have some interesting ideas on extensions of temporal topologies," said William. "Doubtless little will come of it, but it might be worth exploring."
"There will never be another brain like Herjellsen's," said Gunther, "the brilliance, the madness, the capacity, incomprehensible, to touch the shores of foreign realities."
"Herjellsen did not expect to be always with us," said Hamilton.
"We are alone now," said Gunther.
"We have ourselves," said William.
"Herjellsen," said Gunther, "would have liked to see the stars." He looked down at the grave.
Then the party turned about, and returned, slowly, to the compound.
Behind them they left the grave, with its simple marker. It bore the name Herjellsen. It bore, too, a brief inscription, which William had added, 'Ad Astra.'
At the gate to the compound, Hamilton turned to William. "What is the meaning of 'Ad Astra,'" she asked him,
William smiled. "To the stars," he said.
36
Hamilton lifted her head. She rose to her feet, and stood in the high grass, among the stones in a circle.
The Horse People had, in the months intervening, added other stones. Some they had placed on others. Many of these stones were large, and had, apparently, been brought, doubtless on rollers, from long distances. Many of the stones, now, were higher than Hamilton's head.
Then she walked from the place. Two men of the Horse People saw her. They cried out. She paid them no attention. They did not touch her, though, for a time, they followed her. Then they returned to the circle of stones, looking back, Hamilton saw them dancing about its edges.
She continued on, not again looking back. About her thighs she had wrapped the brief deerskin skirt of the women of the Men, which she had worn when she had returned to Rhodesia and the compound. She had not brought supplies with her, nor a compass. She knew her way. She knew she could live off the land. She was a woman of the Men.
Tree turned her roughly about, her back to him. Hamilton stood very straight. She felt the collar, of thongs, and teeth, and leather, and shells looped several times about her neck and then, behind her neck, knotted tightly. He turned her about, to face him.
"You have been long from my collar," he said.
"Beat me," she said.
"If you run away again," he said, "I will kill you."
"I will not run away again," she said, "—Master."
Her body, abruptly, was half turned about, as he tore the deerskin skirt from her.
"Lie down," he said. "Lift your body."
Swiftly Hamilton, half frightened, obeyed him. He did not take her immediately, but looked upon her.
She looked at him, and saw his anger. She knew he would take his vengeance on her, deep and incredible vengeance, a ruthless hunter's vengeance, for the months in which she had denied him her body. She trembled, but yet with eagerness to feel his wrath. She waited for him, her body trembling; she waited, a slave, for the master to ventilate, fully, on her helpless beauty, the extreme, pent-up fury of his mighty displeasure; she, a slave, awaited her discipline; she knew she would be sharply disciplined; she, a slave, awaited her punishment; she looked at Tree; she knew she would be well punished; "I love you," she said; he looked at her with fury, with desire, with lust; such as she had not seen since he, long ago, had tied her in the high prison cave; "I lie before you, as you have ordered me," said Hamilton; "I lift my body to you, as you have commanded. I am yours. Do with me what you will, Master"; she smiled, tears in her eyes; she arched her back, lifting her body more vulnerably to him; but she saw that he would not be so easily placated; she did not know how long it would take to placate such an anger; it might, she suspected, take weeks, or months; perhaps for more than a year she might be forced to eat from his hand; she looked up again at him, tears loving and sweet in her eyes; "I love you," she whispered; then she said, "I await my punishment"; then she said, "Punish me, Master."
Hamilton, turning her head, with her teeth, took the bit of meat from Tree's hand. He held it. She looked at him. Then he permitted her to have it. She chewed it, and put her head delicately against the hair on his wrist.
"Punish me, Master," she had said, lying before him, his naked slave, in his collar.
With a cry, almost animal, of rage, of joy, of lust, Tree, a hunter, brutal and cruel, had thrown himself mer
cilessly upon her.
Well had he punished her. Never again would she so much as dare to think of leaving his side.
"I have come back!" she had cried. "I love you!" she had cried. "I love you!"
Antelope came to Hamilton and, as a joke, put her hand on Hamilton's back. Hamilton cried out, and winced, but then, as she saw Tree's frown, was silent, and put down her head, smiling. He did not wish her to cry out. Her back was laced with welts, deep, from the switching she had been given. It hurt her to move, but she was pleased. He had used her five times, almost consecutively, before dragging her to a sapling and lashing her wrists about it; then he had beaten her; when he had done this, he untied her and again, by the hair, threw her to the grass, where he raped her until he could rape her no more, and then told her to run to Old Woman, to help with the food. Stinging, laughing, pulling her skirt about her bruised, aching thighs, she had stumbled to Old Woman. "Hurry, Girl," had laughed Old Woman, cackling with pleasure, "turn the meat on the spit. Be busy, lazy, good-for-nothing girl!"
"Yes, Old Woman!" had cried Hamilton. "Yes, Old Woman!"
Ugly Girl had come to her, to lick the wounds on her back. "I love you, Ugly Girl," said Hamilton, kissing her.
About the camp she saw the small boy of the Ugly People, whose parents had been killed by the Weasel People. He had fled to the woods. Ugly Girl, months ago, had found him, and brought him to the camp. He played with the other children, as one of the Men. Tooth was to him as a father. Ugly Girl's own belly was swollen with young, perhaps, it was possible, with the child of Tooth. Hamilton knew the relationship in evolution of the bands of Ugly People to the bands of the Men was obscure. It was not known if the Men themselves had sprung from a form of Ugly People, or if there had been only, in the remote past of these peoples, a common animal. That seemed most likely. But there was little doubt, in gross matters, as to the similarity of the species. The Ugly People and the Men, in the great patterns of life, were brothers. And the belly of Ugly Girl, even if it were only from the gentle, shambling male of the Ugly People, was heavy with life. Hamilton looked into the wide, deep, simple eyes of Ugly Girl. They are called, among themselves, she thought, the Love People. "I love you. Ugly Girl," said Hamilton again, kissing her.