This Way to the End Times

by Robert Silverberg

  She glanced at him in astonishment. “Are all to the south so strong for knowing as you?”

  “In no degree,” said Guyal. “Everywhere normality of the mind may be observed. The habitants adroitly perform the motions which fed them yesterday, last week, a year ago. I have been informed of my aberration well and full. ‘Why strive for a pedant’s accumulation?’ I have been told. ‘Why forego merriment, music, and revelry for the abstract and abstruse?’”

  “Indeed,” said Shierl. “Well do they counsel; such is the consensus at Saponce.”

  Guyal shrugged. “The rumor goes that I am demon-bereft of my senses. Such may be. In any event the effect remains and the obsession haunts me.”

  Shierl indicated understanding and acquiescence. “Ask on then; I will endeavor to ease these yearnings.”

  He glanced at her sidelong, studied the charming triangle of her face, the heavy black hair, the great lustrous eyes, dark as yu-sapphires. “In happier circumstances, there would be other yearnings I would beseech you likewise to ease.”

  “Ask,” replied Shierl of Saponce. “The Museum of Man is close; there is occasion for naught but words.”

  “Why are we thus dismissed and charged, with tacit acceptance of our doom?”

  “The immediate cause is the ghost you saw on the hill. When the ghost appears, then we of Saponce know that the most beautiful maiden and the most handsome youth of the town must be despatched to the Museum. The prime behind the custom I do not know. So it is; so it has been; so it will be till the sun gutters like a coal in the rain and darkens Earth, and the winds blow snow over Saponce.”

  “But what is our mission? Who greets us, what is our fate?”

  “Such details are unknown.”

  Guyal mused, “The likelihood of pleasure seems small. . . . There are discordants in the episode. You are beyond doubt the loveliest creature of the Saponids, the loveliest creature of Earth—but I, I am a casual stranger, and hardly the most well-favored youth of the town.”

  She smiled a trifle. “You are not uncomely.”

  Guyal said somberly, “Over-riding the condition of my person is the fact that I am a stranger and so bring little loss to the town of Saponce.”

  “That aspect has no doubt been considered,” the girl said.

  Guyal searched the horizon. “Let us then avoid the Museum of Man, let us circumvent this unknown fate and take to the mountains, and so south to Ascolais. Lust for enlightenment will never fly me in the face of destruction so clearly implicit.”

  She shook her head. “Do you suppose that we would gain by the ruse? The eyes of a hundred warriors follow us till we pass through the portals of the Museum; should we attempt to scamp our duty we should be bound to stakes, stripped of our skins by the inch, and at last be placed in bags with a thousand scorpions poured around our heads. Such is the traditional penalty; twelve times in history has it been invoked.”

  Guyal threw back his shoulders and spoke in a nervous voice. “Ah, well—the Museum of Man has been my goal for many years. On this motive I set forth from Sfere, so now I would seek the Curator and satisfy my obsession for brainfilling.”

  “You are blessed with great fortune,” said Shierl, “for you are being granted your heart’s desire.”

  Guyal could find nothing to say, so for a space they walked in silence. Then he spoke. “Shierl.”

  “Yes, Guyal of Sfere?”

  “Do they separate us and take us apart?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Shierl.”

  “Yes?”

  “Had we met under a happier star . . .” He paused.

  Shierl walked in silence.

  He looked at her coolly. “You speak not.”

  “But you ask nothing,” she said in surprise. Guyal turned his face ahead, to the Museum of Man.

  Presently she touched his arm. “Guyal, I am greatly frightened.”

  Guyal gazed at the ground beneath his feet, and a blossom of fire sprang alive in his brain. “See the marking through the lichen?”

  “Yes; what then?”

  “Is it a trail?”

  Dubiously she responded, “It is a way worn by the passage of many feet. So then—it is a trail.”

  Guyal said in restrained jubilation, “Here is safety, if I never permit myself to be cozened from the way. But you—ah, I must guard you; you must never leave my side, you must swim in the charm which protects me; perhaps then we will survive.”

  Shierl said sadly, “Let us not delude our reason, Guyal of Sfere.”

  But as they walked, the trail grew plainer, and Guyal became correspondingly sanguine. And ever larger bulked the crumble which marked the Museum of Man, presently to occupy all their vision.

  If a storehouse of knowledge had existed here, little sign of it remained. There was a great flat floor, flagged in white stone, now chalky, broken and inter-thrust by weeds. Around this floor rose a series of monoliths, pocked and worn, and toppled off at various heights. These at one time had supported a vast roof; now of roof there was none and the walls were but dreams of the far past.

  So here was the flat floor bounded by the broken stumps of pillars, bare to the winds of time and the glare of the cool red sun. The rains had washed the marble, the dust from the mountains had been laid on and swept off, laid on and swept off, and those who had built the Museum were less than a mote of this dust, so far and forgotten were they.

  “Think,” said Guyal, “think of the vastness of knowledge which once was gathered here and which is now one with the soil—unless, of course, the Curator has salvaged and preserved.”

  Shierl looked about apprehensively. “I think rather of the portal, and that which awaits us . . . Guyal,” she whispered, “I fear, I fear greatly. . . . Suppose they tear us apart? Suppose there is torture and death for us? I fear a tremendous impingement, the shock of horror . . .”

  Guyal’s own throat was hot and full. He looked about with challenge. “While I still breathe and hold power in my arms to fight, there will be none to harm us.”

  Shierl groaned softly. “Guyal, Guyal, Guyal of Sfere—why did you choose me?”

  “Because,” said Guyal, “my eye went to you like the nectar moth flits to the jacynth; because you were the loveliest and I thought nothing but good in store for you.”

  With a shuddering breath Shierl said, “I must be courageous; after all, if it were not I it would be some other maid equally fearful. . . . And there is the portal.”

  Guyal inhaled deeply, inclined his head, and strode forward. “Let us be to it, and know . . .”

  The portal opened into a nearby monolith, a door of flat black metal. Guyal followed the trail to the door, and rapped staunchly with his fist on the small copper gong to the side.

  The door groaned wide on its hinges, and cool air, smelling of the under-earth, billowed forth. In the black gape their eyes could find nothing.

  “Hola within!” cried Guyal.

  A soft voice, full of catches and quavers, as if just after weeping, said, “Come ye, come ye forward. You are desired and awaited.”

  Guyal leaned his head forward, straining to see. “Give us light, that we may not wander from the trail and bottom ourselves.”

  The breathless quaver of a voice said, “Light is not needed; anywhere you step, that will be your trail, by an arrangement so agreed with the Way-Maker.”

  “No,” said Guyal, “we would see the visage of our host. We come at his invitation; the minimum of his guest-offering is light; light there must be before we set foot inside the dungeon. Know we come as seekers after knowledge; we are visitors to be honored.”

  “Ah, knowledge, knowledge,” came the sad breathlessness. “That shall be yours, in full plentitude—knowledge of many strange affairs; oh, you shall swim in a tide of knowledge—”

  Guyal interrupted the sad, sighing voice. “Are you the Curator? Hundreds of leagues have I come to bespeak the Curator and put him my inquiries. Are you he?”

  “
By no means. I revile the name of the Curator as a treacherous non-essential.”

  “Who then may you be?”

  “I am no one, nothing. I am an abstraction, an emotion, the ooze of terror, the sweat of horror, the shake in the air when a scream has departed.”

  “You speak the voice of man.”

  “Why not? Such things as I speak lie in the closest and dearest center of the human brain.”

  Guyal said in a subdued voice, “You do not make your invitation as enticing as might be hoped.”

  “No matter, no matter; enter you must, into the dark and on the instant, as my lord, who is myself, waxes warm and languorous.”

  “If light there be, we enter.”

  “No light, no insolent scorch is ever found in the Museum.”

  “In this case,” said Guyal, drawing forth his Scintillant Dagger, “I innovate a welcome reform. For see, now there is light!”

  From the under-pommel issued a searching glare; the ghost tall before them screeched and fell into twinkling ribbons like pulverized tinsel. There were a few vagrant motes in the air; he was gone.

  Shierl, who had stood stark and stiff as one mesmerized, gasped a soft warm gasp and fell against Guyal. “How can you be so defiant?”

  Guyal said in a voice half-laugh, half-quaver, “In truth I do not know . . . perhaps I find it incredible that Destiny would direct me from pleasant Sfere, through forest and crag, into the northern waste, merely to play the role of cringing victim. Disbelieving so inconclusive a destiny, I am bold.”

  He moved the dagger to right and left, and they saw themselves to be at the portal of a keep, cut from concreted rock. At the back opened a black depth. Crossing the floor swiftly, Guyal kneeled and listened.

  He heard no sound. Shierl, at his back, stared with eyes as black and deep as the pit itself, and Guyal, turning, received a sudden irrational impression of a sprite of the olden times—a creature small and delicate, heavy with the weight of her charm, pale, sweet, clean.

  Leaning with his glowing dagger, he saw a crazy rack of stairs voyaging down into the dark, and his light showed them and their shadows in so confusing a guise that he blinked and drew back.

  Shierl said, “What do you fear?”

  Guyal rose, turned to her. “We are momentarily untended here in the Museum of Man, and we are impelled forward by various forces; you by the will of your people; I, by that which has driven me since I first tasted air. . . . If we stay here we shall be once more arranged in harmony with the hostile pattern. If we go forward boldly, we may so come to a position of strategy and advantage. I propose that we set forth in all courage, descend these stairs and seek the Curator.”

  “But does he exist?”

  “The ghost spoke fervently against him.”

  “Let us go then,” said Shierl. “I am resigned.”

  Guyal said gravely, “We go in the mental frame of adventure, aggressiveness, zeal. Thus does fear vanish and the ghosts become creatures of mind-weft; thus does our élan burst the under-earth terror.”

  “We go.”

  They started down the stairs.

  Back, forth, back, forth, down flights at varying angles, stages of varying heights, treads at varying widths, so that each step was a matter for concentration. Back, forth, down, down, down, and the black-barred shadows moved and jerked in bizarre modes on the walls.

  The flight ended, they stood in a room similar to the entry above. Before them was another black portal, polished at one spot by use; on the walls to either side were inset brass plaques bearing messages in unfamiliar characters.

  Guyal pushed the door open against a slight pressure of cold air, which, blowing through the aperture, made a slight rush, ceasing when Guyal opened the door farther.

  “Listen.”

  It was a far sound, an intermittent clacking, and it held enough fell significance to raise the hairs at Guyal’s neck. He felt Shierl’s hand gripping his with clammy pressure.

  Dimming the dagger’s glow to a glimmer, Guyal passed through the door, with Shierl coming after. From afar came the evil sound, and by the echoes they knew they stood in a great hall.

  Guyal directed the light to the floor: it was of a black resilient material. Next the wall: polished stone. He permitted the light to glow in the direction opposite to the sound, and a few paces distant they saw a bulky black case, studded with copper bosses, topped by a shallow glass tray in which could be seen an intricate concourse of metal devices.

  With the purpose of the black cases not apparent, they followed the wall, and as they walked similar cases appeared, looming heavy and dull, at regular intervals. The clacking receded as they walked; then they came to a right angle, and turning the corner, they seemed to approach the sound. Black case after black case passed; slowly, tense as foxes, they walked, eyes groping for sight through the darkness.

  The wall made another angle, and here there was a door.

  Guyal hesitated. To follow the new direction of the wall would mean approaching the source of the sound. Would it be better to discover the worst quickly or to reconnoitre as they went?

  He propounded the dilemma to Shierl, who shrugged. “It is all one; sooner or later the ghosts will flit down to pluck at us; then we are lost.”

  “Not while I possess light to stare them away to wisps and shreds,” said Guyal. “Now I would find the Curator, and possibly he is to be found behind this door. We will so discover.”

  He laid his shoulder to the door; it eased ajar with a crack of golden light. Guyal peered through. He sighed, a muffled sound of wonder.

  Now he opened the door further; Shierl clutched at his arm.

  “This is the Museum,” said Guyal in rapt tone. “Here there is no danger. . . . He who dwells in beauty of this sort may never be other than beneficent. . . .” He flung wide the door.

  The light came from an unknown source, from the air itself, as if leaking from the discrete atoms; every breath was luminous, the room floated full of invigorating glow. A great rug pelted the floor, a monster tabard woven of gold, brown, bronze, two tones of green, fuscous red and smalt blue. Beautiful works of human fashioning ranked the walls. In glorious array hung panels of rich woods, carved, chased, enameled; scenes of olden times painted on woven fiber; formulas of color, designed to convey emotion rather than reality. To one side hung plats of wood laid on with slabs of soapstone, malachite and jade in rectangular patterns, richly varied and subtle, with miniature flecks of cinnabar, rhodochrosite and coral for warmth. Beside was a section given to disks of luminous green, flickering and fluorescent with varying blue films and moving dots of scarlet and black. Here were representations of three hundred marvellous flowers, blooms of a forgotten age, no longer extant on waning Earth; there were as many starburst patterns, rigidly conventionalized in form, but each of subtle distinction. All these and a multitude of other creations, selected from the best of human fervor.

  The door thudded softly behind them; staring, every inch of skin a-tingle, the two from Earth’s final time moved forward through the hall.

  “Somewhere near must be the Curator,” whispered Guyal. “There is a sense of careful tending and great effort here in the gallery.”

  “Look.”

  Opposite were two doors, laden with the sense of much use. Guyal strode quickly across the room but was unable to discern the means for opening the door, for it bore no latch, key, handle, knob or bar. He rapped with his knuckles and waited; no sound returned.

  Shierl tugged at his arm. “These are private regions. It is best not to venture too rudely.”

  Guyal turned away and they continued down the gallery. Past the real expression of man’s brightest dreamings they walked, until the concentration of so much fire and spirit and creativity put them into awe. “What great minds lie in the dust,” said Guyal in a low voice. “What gorgeous souls have vanished into the buried ages; what marvellous creatures are lost past the remotest memory. . . . Nevermore will there be the like; now in the last fle
eting moments, humanity festers rich as rotten fruit. Rather than master and overpower our world, our highest aim is to cheat it through sorcery.”

  Shierl said, “But you, Guyal—you are apart. You are not like this . . .”

  “I would know,” declared Guyal with fierce emphasis. “In all my youth this ache has driven me, and I have journeyed from the old manse at Sfere to learn from the Curator. . . . I am dissatisfied with the mindless accomplishments of the magicians, who have all their lore by rote.”

  Shierl gazed at him with a marvelling expression, and Guyal’s soul throbbed with love. She felt him quiver and whispered recklessly, “Guyal of Sfere, I am yours, I melt for you . . .”

  “When we win to peace,” said Guyal, “then our world will be of gladness . . .”

  The room turned a corner, widened. And now the clacking sound they had noticed in the dark outer hall returned, louder, more suggestive of unpleasantness. It seemed to enter the gallery through an arched doorway opposite.

  Guyal moved quietly to this door, with Shierl at his heels, and so they peered into the next chamber.

  A great face looked from the wall, a face taller than Guyal, as tall as Guyal might reach with hands on high. The chin rested on the floor, the scalp slanted back into the panel.

  Guyal stared, taken aback. In this pageant of beautiful objects, the grotesque visage was the disparity and dissonance a lunatic might have created. Ugly and vile was the face, of a gut-wrenching silly obscenity. The skin shone a gun-metal sheen, the eyes gazed dully from slanting folds of greenish tissue. The nose was a small lump, the mouth a gross pulpy slash.

  In sudden uncertainty Guyal turned to Shierl. “Does this not seem an odd work so to be honored here in the Museum of Man?”

  Shierl was staring with eyes agonized and wide. Her mouth opened, quivered, wetness streaked her chin. With hands jerking, shaking, she grabbed his arm, staggered back into the gallery.

  “Guyal,” she cried, “Guyal, come away!” Her voice rose to a pitch. “Come away, come away!”

  He faced her in surprise. “What are you saying?”

  “That horrible thing in there—”