“Ahhhh!” He shouted in an extreme of embarrassment, trying to shout down the memory of the children sniggering as he had stumbled away with blackened and shredding robes. The shout echoed around the cool stone of the church and he flushed, realizing he had made that stupid noise himself. It had happened and it was over and it was unimportant — he was too wise a man to allow such a little setback to unbalance him.
Dying is meaningless. There is no reason for it I will eliminate that Clock that tells my body to age. Those kids with the dirty faces, laughing at him. I will eliminate, eliminate the Clock. Manuel and that girl, Ellie. First the feet, flow with the bloodstream and regenerate the cells. The ankles, soothe the tired ankles and nourish the flesh, the bone —”
“Hello, Dad Ose!”
What? What? Dear God, it couldn’t be! Yet he stood there, that wretched mysterious boy, the sun warming his dark hair as he paused in the doorway holding the hand of some trollop — a different one this time.
“Sorry, Dad Ose … I didn’t know you were sleeping.”
“I was praying, God damn it!” snapped Dad use inexcusably, then collected himself. “Come in, my children. What can I do for you today?”
“I want to speak to God.” “What!” This was an insult. Dad Ose bounded to his feet and strode down the aisle. His palms itched. He would smash those two kids’ heads together, knock some respect into them … They stood there with the sun around them like a halo, holding hands. There was something serene about them, something… holy. He stopped, and swallowed.
Manuel repeated, in some surprise, “I want to speak to God, like I did before. I find it’s easier here, somehow. Your church is quiet and old, and he comes through better.”
Dad Ose felt as though he were in some kind of suspended animation, and he found himself saying, “Manuel, I’ve lived in this church for over four hundred years, and in all that time God’s never spoken to me.”
“That’s probably because you don’t address him by the proper name,” said Manuel with disarming simplicity.
“Oh? And what’s his proper name?”
“Starquin. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. Starquin the Five-in-One.”
“The Five-in-One, is it? Let me see now: One, the Father, two, the Son —”
“No, Dad. Length, Width, Thickness, Duration and Psychic Entity.”
So straightforward was Manuel’s manner that Dad Ose found his own anger rude. And that girl, beside Manuel, seemed to radiate a quiet goodness. They were sincere, these two. So instead of throwing them out, he said, “My God is the only true God, Manuel. He has endured since the beginning of time, and always will. Yours is a false God.”
Probably at this moment Manuel realized something of the conflict within the priest, because he chose his words very carefully. “I really think we’re talking about the same person, Dad, although Starquin has only been on Earth for 250,890,147 years and he will be leaving soon. But what I have to say to him is very important, and I only found this out last night, when Beth and I were in bed. Do you mind? I’ll talk aloud, so you’ll see I don’t say anything that you might disagree with.”
“Oh, go ahead, then,” said Dad Ose helplessly.
Manuel sat in a pew, drawing Beth down beside him, and rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes. Then, slowly at first, but gaining confidence, he spoke.
“Dear Starquin. I have done everything you asked me to, and I’m sorry if I misunderstood what you really wanted. I made friends with the man at the Dome, who turned out to be Zozula, and not such a bad kind of man at all. I was kind to people and to animals and even plants and machines, except when I thought their will was against yours, and it all seemed to work out well, and I really think that human beings will be a lot better off for what we’ve done.
“I’ve seen some terrifying things and I’ve seen a lot of people die, but I know now that these things are necessary, because if everything goes the way we want it, then life is very dull —and anyway, these bad things are just as necessary to your plan as the good things. So I can see that it’s right that Selena is treating people with Bale Wolf venom, and I thank you for including this in your plan, because it’s given me Beth, whom I wouldn’t have had otherwise.
“Starquin — maybe I’m too proud. I’ve always thought I could understand what it was all about. Even when Belinda died, I told myself it was your will and there must be a reason. And yesterday I thought I saw that reason. The people in the Domes had to be saved and I had been chosen to do it, and my reward was to be Beth. That’s what I thought. But now, after last night, I don’t understand anymore.
“You tell me we have to go away. You tell me we have to make ourselves ready to face another test, and that we must go back to the Dome.
“Well, Starquin,” and here Manuel’s voice became stubborn, “I don’t want to. I’ve had enough, and I want to settle down at home. I’m through with excitement for a while, and facing death isn’t my idea of fun anymore. Haven’t I done enough?’’
There was silence in the church. For a while Manuel stayed there, shoulders hunched and face buried in his hands, as though flinching from the possibility of Almighty anger. Dad Ose stood and Beth sat motionless, watching.
Then gradually the sounds from outside began to intrude, the bird song and sighing of wind. Somewhere an animal snorted. The wind stirred a tree outside the window, and the shadows moved over the pews and the stone floor. Manuel looked up. There was still a residue of fear in his eyes. Beth squeezed his hand. A warm breeze fanned through the stonework, stirring the dust.
Dad Ose spoke.
He was going to say something fairly gentle to this misguided youth, something about the sin of pride and its inevitable fall, something wise and kindly and avuncular.
Instead, the words that came were not his own.
He said, “I will not command you, Manuel, because I can read the Ifalong well enough to know you will do my wishes of your own accord. You and Beth will come to no harm. Since this is the last time I will speak to anyone on your planet, I will thank you now for all your help. Goodbye.” Dad Ose closed his mouth.
There was a long silence. A cock crowed.
Manuel said, “Come on, Beth. We’d better get along to the Dome.”
Dad Ose watched them go, watched them walking hand in hand down the dusty road to the village and the Dome, and his mouth had dropped open again.
Starquin had spoken through him.
The astonishment and terror gradually abated, then grew into something else — an enormous flush of pride: He, too, had been chosen as Starquin’s instrument.
He looked around his church, seeing the trappings that served religion as he taught it, and as he had learned it in the North, hundreds of years ago. He had taught a good religion, carefully weighing the various messiahs who had emerged down the ages and using the best of the teachings of each, always bearing in mind that the important thing was the Supreme Being. Someone up there cared.
So, what was in a name?
And, if Someone up there was moving out, what did that matter? At least he, Dad Ose, was now completely convinced of his existence, and could devote the rest of his life to preparing Mankind for his inevitable return …
Lighthearted, and feeling younger and more secure in his belief than he could remember, he made his way briskly to the village. People down there would be feeling the need of spiritual comfort, this morning.
DAEDALUS AND ICARUS
How could a steam locomotive fly? Well, it couldn’t, of course, but that didn’t stop a lot of people thinking that it could. It was just another legend, a distortion of what had happened millions of years ago.
Maybe they were closer to the truth in Ionia, an ancient land where the men once more herded goats and the women once more tended the hearth. Ionia had seen its share of changes — a fleeting moment in history when the valleys and hillsides disappeared under the press of concrete and steel and people — but later, time slowed again, and the st
orytellers told slow tales around the evening fires.
They told the story of Daedalus the inventor and his son Icarus.
It seemed that Daedalus seriously offended Starquin in some bygone era. Starquin had watched the land grow beautiful, millennia upon millennia. He had seen the plants thrive and the animals flourish and evolve, and he’d seen Mankind arrive to share his enjoyment. Through the eyes of the Dedos, he’d often come close, so close that he could observe individual men and their doings — and, if absolutely necessary, he could influence them, although it was against his Rule.
But Starquin failed to observe Daedalus. By the time Starquin found out what Daedalus had done, it was too late. Too many humans were affected on too many happentracks.
Daedalus had invented the steam locomotive and fathered the Industrial Revolution.
It happened in the flicker of an eternal eyelid, and Earth was suddenly spoiled for Starquin. Steel rails glittered unnaturally in the sunlight, and the gentle wind was obstructed by tall buildings. Propellers churned the quietness of the sea, and smoke dirtied the clouds. And humans were everywhere, no longer interesting and unique, but threatening to overwhelm other creatures by their very numbers — and, ultimately, to force the progress of Earth into their own pattern instead of Starquin’s.
It happened in the flicker of an eternal eyelid — and just as quickly, it was certain to go away. Unlike the dinosaurs, however, it would leave a mess. Earth would be depleted of its possessions, and wreckage would litter the land. The wreckage would rot and disappear, but the possessions would not be replaced indeed, many of them were lost in the Greataway. Starquin could do nothing except exact punishment.
So he plucked Daedalus out of one happentrack and he set him down in another, at a later period when he might witness the results of his invention. And he set his son down with him. This son was Daedalus’s only surviving relative, and very dear to him. His name was Icarus.
Starquin imprisoned Daedalus and Icarus in a huge compound with high walls. And he filled the compound with the results of Daedalus’s work — a great litter of wrecked steam locomotives. And he left the two of them there to rot.
But Daedalus had not, on this happentrack, invented the locomotive. Starquin had plucked him out of time too carelessly. Daedalus gazed at the giant shapes with curiosity and interest, and he began to tinker with things. Far from being desolated by his predicament, he became fascinated and delighted. Only Icarus, staring at the tops of the high walls and wondering what was outside, was unable to share his father’s joy.
“This place is a prison, Father. I want to get out — I can’t stand the confinement.” Icarus was a free spirit, and in due course would — but that is another story.
Daedalus was a workman and an inventor, and a man of narrow but intense vision, unlike Icarus, who was a dreamer.
“There’s a lifetime’s work here, Son. These great machines — I’d dreamed of such, but I’d never seen them.” He instinctively understood the purpose of the great boilers, and he filled them with water and lit fires in the fireboxes and watched the pressure rise. His eyes followed the plumes of steam into the sky while he listened to his son’s lamenting.
“I will die if I am trapped in here any longer, Father.”
While Daedalus worked on, his son wasted away, until gradually the work and the discovering began to lose its appeal and his son’s sickness began to obsess him. He wondered if there were some way in which his inventive powers could be turned into avenues of escape. He watched the steam rise into the calm air.
He had a fair idea of the purpose of the locomotives. He had even succeeded in repairing two and had driven one a short distance along a length of twisted track. They were apparently a means of transport. But it seemed a lot of trouble, building huge machines like these for a simple purpose that could be accomplished by a horse — and what was more, a horse was not confined to tracks. So there must be something else.
It was winter before he realized what the locomotives were really for, and by this time Icarus’s cheeks were sunken and his face flushed. He lay in one of the locomotives, his breath coming fast, and Daedalus knew he had to get him out of the compound soon.
It was the steam that gave Daedalus the clue he sought. The steam rose into the sky. The purpose of the boiler was to create steam by boiling water, and confined within that huge boiler must be an immense amount of steam, possessing prodigious lift. Only the weight of the locomotive itself kept it from flying away into the sky. So how to get it off the ground? The secret was in the wheels, and at last he realized their true purpose.
So he labored in the snow, while Icarus coughed on the locomotive footplate in the heat of the fire, and eventually he laid a straight track toward the high walls and curved the track upward at the end so that a locomotive, rushing along it, would be launched into the air. That was the impetus he needed that was what the wheels were for — to help get the locomotive airborne.
Then, because he wanted to take no chance of overloading, he built another, similar track and fired up his second locomotive for Icarus.
Finally, he discussed his plan with his son. To his surprise, Icarus was overjoyed, thinking little of the danger — but questioning his father again and again on the capabilities of the locomotives.
“I don’t know, Icarus.” Why were his son’s eyes so bright? Why was he standing, when a few minutes before he’d seemed too weak to rise? “The impetus of the wheels will throw the locomotive into the air, and the steam will lift it over the wall. More than that I can’t tell you.”
“Flying … We’ll be flying, like birds. Do you realize that, Father? Doesn’t the thought move you?”
“Machinery moves me. So, we may fly a short distance. My main intent is to get you out of here. I thought that was what you wanted, too.”
“Yes … But flying…”
The locomotives stood side by side. Icarus, flushed and bright-eyed, stood at one regulator, his father at the other.
“Now …”said Daedalus.
Simultaneously they pulled on the regulators, and in unison, the two locomotives rolled down the tracks, gathering speed. The compound echoed with exhaust beats as smoke was hurled into the sky. Rail-joints rattled under the wheels. Daedalus saw the intense expression on his son’s face and wondered. Icarus glanced across at him and grinned a fierce grin of joyous anticipation. Side by side, the two locomotives roared toward the wall.
The beat of exhaust deepened as they hurled themselves at the grade and began to climb. The man and the boy held the regulators wide open, urging every last gram of power out of their bellowing mounts. The rails fell away beneath them.
They rose into the air.
Daedalus held his breath as his locomotive leveled out, skimming the top of the wall with a scant meter to spare. He looked ahead and saw a fair land stretching into the distance, wooded hillsides and lakes with winding rivers glistening in the sunlight — quite unlike his native Ionia, but beautiful, and a fine place for Icarus and him to settle down in. He saw a cluster of friendly cottages, and he eased off the regulator and opened the cylinder cocks, blowing off steam. The locomotive began a gentle descent. He motioned Icarus to follow him.
But Icarus still clung to his regulator, and the smoke roared from the chimney, drawing the furnace into an inferno and building ever higher pressure in the boiler. He was laughing, eyes blazing, and faintly his father heard the words, “Flying, I’m flying! Into Space, into Space …”
Daedalus landed, descended from the cab, looked up and wept.
Icarus flew on, ever higher, until his father could see him no longer. He rose until the clouds were beneath him, and where they parted he could see a green land below, rivers and villages and coastline, like a colored map. That land didn’t interest him, because Space lay before him. His lifelong dream was about to come true. Tugging at the regulator, he rose …
He rose until he reached the limits of Earth’s atmosphere, then the furnace began to falter
and flicker, because there was no oxygen to feed it. The boiler pressure dropped. Frantically he shoveled in more coal, but it served only to dampen the fire further.
The locomotive fell.
Icarus screamed. The locomotive fell back into the atmosphere, but the fire was out, the steam pressure low. Icarus fell, down, down, through the clouds until he smashed into the summit of a great mountain, creating a crater a kilometer wide, and only then did the furnace reignite, but it was too late.
Icarus was dead.
The boiler exploded with a mighty roar, and fire and steam gushed from the summit of the mountain, which men called Stromboli. From time to time Stromboli still explodes and throws steam and molten stuff into the sky — and men say “Icarus has fallen on another happentrack.” And since there are happentracks without limit, Icarus will always fall and Stromboli will always erupt.
And Daedalus?
Years later, when he was an old man alone in his cottage, his only possessions a few goats, Starquin appeared to him in the form of a Dedo.
“Why did you do it?” asked Daedalus. “Why did you take Icarus? I was the guilty one. I spoiled the Earth.” Over the years he’d had dreams of the future, and he’d seen what he’d done on other happentracks.
The beautiful woman looked at him. There was no pity in her eyes, no humanity — because at that moment she was totally possessed by Starquin, the Logical One.
She said, “It is the way of a man to invent only one thing in his lifetime. You invented the steam engine — nothing more. But Icarus—had he lived, he would have discovered the Great-away. Mankind is not ready for that, Daedalus. Not yet.”
So saying, she disappeared, leaving Daedalus alone.
Gods of the Greataway Page 26