by Stephen King
When the tank was empty, one of the technicians climbed in and began manipulating the cable and its coupling at the base of Link/Ship’s spine. He felt the gross tampering as the man measured and checked the connection with small tools. Link/Ship watched as the man outside the tank nodded and threw more switches on the manual panel. Instantly, the changes crashed through him. It was slow, inexorable, and painless, but he almost cried out as the cybernetic systems began to shut down. Half of his consciousness was fading, failing … dying. Ship-awareness slipped away from him, and he dropped into a vortex of darkness. Link felt as if an invisible scalpel was systematically cutting away the onion-like layers of his self.
Specter-like, the blinking computer displays on the manual panel flickered and died. The last weak pulse of ship sensation touched his mind; and in a moment of imploding darkness, the cybernetic system was down.
Link struggled against the twilight awareness: the small-talk conversation of the technicians, the feel of the close-fitting fabric of his suit, and the thrum of blood passing through his temples were his only sensations now.
Slowly, he became aware of the mechanical arms that held his limp body. Then there were the human hands scampering like crabs over the fittings of his suit, fumbling with the catches, and opening the seals. They removed his helmet and the stale air of the bridge assaulted him—he was not prepared for the reality of machine oil and perspiration.
They peeled the rest of the suit from his pale body and he became conscious of his lean frame, even though he was weightless. He felt bitterness and even anger at the rough way in which they treated him, although he knew it was necessary to complete the assignment. The technicians, like himself, had no choice in this matter. Fingers fumbled with the coupling. Special tools clicked into place as Link felt them removing the cable. Movement, and the seal of the coupling was violated—the umbilical had been cut—and Link wrestled with the new psychological pain. He imagined the cable dropping off, away from his spine, and instantly shriveling and dying and falling lifelessly to the bottom of the tank. Link then saw the man outside the tank reach into a pouch and produce a round, flat disc. He handed it to the other technician, who moved it into position at the base of Link’s spine. Link imagined the coupling there: an open wound, oozing an invisible life-substance, a death wound. He felt the disc being snapped over the coupling—the bio-connector—sealing it indefinitely.
He knew that his private access to the voices of time and the stars was irretrievably gone. Like other men, he was condemned to flounder in the backwash of his meager human senses. These were his thoughts as the two technicians carried his limp body away from the bridge. When they reached the airlock, Link saw the young pilot they had chosen to replace him: a young, strong-looking man with fire in his eyes. As Link struggled against the darkness raging in his mind, he tried to speak out to the young pilot, tried to warn him of what would eventually come.
But the moment passed too quickly. They brought him into the surfaceship and prepared for the long slide back into the atmosphere. Link was wrapped in a deceleration web, left to contend with the fist of madness that wanted to crush him.
… and tried to forget.
The room, the bed, and the personnel were now familiar to him. Through the window, opposite his bed, he was afforded a spectacular view of the lake and the City beyond it. Watching it, Link knew that he had come home to an unpredictable future. He was reminded of how the City’s computers had planned everything for him, prepared for every contingency … except the one that actually took place.
The door opened, and Link watched a short, somewhat fat, bearded man enter the room, carrying a medical transcriptor. He wore the uniform of the IASA, but its light green color indicated his physician status. Link studied the man’s deliberate gait as he approached the bed. “Good morning,” he said, intoning pleasantness with some effort.
“Hello, Herson.” Link looked away. He did not want to talk.
“We’re not finished with the tests yet,” said the doctor. “But from the early data, there doesn’t seem to be any physiological damage.”
“That’s comforting. So I’m just imagining it all … is that it?”
Herson ignored the remark. “But we’re going to make some more tests—just to be positive.”
Link relaxed his body, feeling the tension leave his muscles. He had to admire Herson’s patience with him, the doctor’s cool professionalism in the face of his madness. “All right, then,” Link finally said. “What’s wrong with me?”
“We’re not sure, of course. But you seem to be suffering from some kind of sensory deprivation.” Dr. Herson rubbed his beard absently. “The drugs seem to be controlling it most of the time … But we need more time, to be certain. The computers are working on it.”
“Yes, I’m okay now,” said Link, massaging his temples. “Calm. Rested. But the darkness is still there inside me, just hanging over me. I can still feel it, and it’s not going away. It’s like half of me just isn’t there anymore.”
“The chemotherapy should help,” said the doctor as he nervously tapped the edge of the transcriptor. “But we’ve only just started in that area, and I’m afraid that the rest might be up to you.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that you’ll have to cooperate with us. You’ve got to stop lying here feeling sorry for yourself and decide whether or not you want to live in this comparatively bland world of ours.”
Link could only nod in agreement. Herson was as perceptive as he was direct. The doctor had tried being sympathetic, but Link knew that such tactics were useless against death-wish cynicism. Herson’s pragmatic approach was far more effective, and even more appealing to Link.
“Remember,” Herson was saying, “the choice, in the end, can only be yours.”
“Then I really don’t have much choice at all, do I?” Link tried to smile, but failed.
Herson did smile, as if in mockery. Standing up, he said, “No, Link, you really don’t.” The bearded man turned and left the room.
The treatment plan was drawn up, and Link, somewhat to his own surprise, responded as best he could. At Herson’s insistence, he did as much exercise and walking as possible. Enzyme injections had prevented his muscles from atrophying while aboard ship, but a rigorous program was still needed to assume complete control again. Gradually he increased his exercises until he was spending several hours each day walking through corridors of the installation. He would pause during these times only to look at the lake from the great cubed building’s observation deck. It was so immense—a small sea.
From that height, he could see gentle surf touching the cliffs below. In the evenings, the images of the water were even more captivating; and he longed to be near it, as he had once longed to be near the stars. He felt an affinity to the sea: how it reached, and touched, and finally retreated from the land. It was as if the sea did not wish to come too close to the earth, for fear of being trapped there—as Link was now trapped.
The beach held a special fascination for him. In it, he saw a twilight place—a place where he might stand and contend with the forces that still threatened to overwhelm him. Perhaps the beach was a compromise where solutions could be pieced together. Link’s mind, he felt, was standing in a twilight place between sanity and madness, between life and death.
He was thinking more clearly now; Herson’s chloropromazines seemed to be working. He no longer feared that the remaining half of his mind would be blotted out like errant ink on a page. The tormented visions had almost ceased entirely.
Almost.
There were still nights when he would wake up screaming into the darkness of his room. The moonlight, flowing through his window, would burn his eyes. The memories of the stars and the wailing light-years would come rushing back, seeking out the cybernetic complex that was no longer there. The hum of the air conditioners became the crackle of ionic storms; the room became the suspension tank and he almost gagged as he fought to keep the colloida
l liquid from drowning him. He fought against these attacks—“lapses,” Herson had called them—until they eventually faded and disappeared. But he was always left shaking with the knowledge that specters still lurked within his divided mind.
. . .
Days passed into weeks and the lapses grew less frequent. Perhaps the time was growing near when they would cease altogether. Link hoped this were so, although that fact would only mean new obstacles to overcome. Life still offered him little solace. His talks with Herson seemed to underscore this; and he would still have to choose between a life or a death. It was at this time he was allowed to walk along the beach. He began looking forward to those times. They gave his life some purpose, and each day he spent more time there, walking more miles, thinking more clearly.
Link noticed an oddity about the place. Perhaps it was the underwater configuration of shoreline, or perhaps it was a particularly strong undercurrent; he was never sure. In the evenings, when the tide went out, he saw that the beach strewn with the casual debris of life. Along his path, he encountered things which the sea had rejected like unwanted offspring. Usually they were creatures that, once cast out, could not return. Link knew that death patrolled that narrow wet strip of sand. Often, he stood and watched the gulls swoop down ahead of him to feast among the dead and dying creatures of the sea. He heard the screams of the birds, which sounded to him like a final alarm, and perhaps a final solution.
It made him think of the utter unpredictability of the sea and of all living things. Man included. The sea: great wellspring, giver of life, magical. It had spawned life and awareness, and that awareness seemed to be rushing out at him. It came to him from some unremembered primordial center as the galaxies had done, expanding into endless night.
Link felt that he was growing to know some of the sea’s many moods and temperaments. (It was actually a great lake, but Link always thought of it as “the sea.”) He had seen its storms, which were brief yet fierce affairs. And when they struck, death became an even busier collector along the shoreline. But sometimes, after such a storm, Link had seen other, far stranger types of collectors. They were usually men from the nearby City who walked the beaches carrying knapsacks. They looked for the simple treasures of the storm-swept sand: a crustacean husk, a shell, or perhaps a sponge-like thing that once had been alive.
Link had always thought it was a morbid pastime. He envisioned greater beings than ourselves, at some future time, rummaging among the graves of men—looking for a particularly well-turned skull or a curious piece of gristle.
But one evening, having walked farther than usual, Link discovered that he had passed beyond sight of the installation. It was beyond the last point of land and the thought unsettled him a bit, much like the feelings of a small boy who wanders away from his home for the first time. Recognizing this latent fear, he continued walking, since he was determined to regain total control of himself.
Looking off into the distance, Link saw a solitary figure walking along the barren, wind-swept shore. The person’s silhouette was framed by the amethyst evening sky, and Link stopped to watch while the wind’s fingers combed through his hair and danced upon his face. The person ahead of him seemed to be engaged in some serious and private activity: crouching down in the sand for a few moments, then standing up and tossing something out to sea.
Link began walking again, closing on the figure until he was near enough to see that it was a young woman. The moon was coming up now, and it cast pale yellow veils along the blue isle of night. He could see her clearly in the soft, new light as she moved gracefully across the sand. Link felt something stirring within his mind; a reaction to her aesthetic sensuality. He continued to walk toward her until he was only several meters away.
Turning, she faced him. Her face was a perfect oval, which radiated warmth and serenity. She showed no fear of him and the hint of a smile danced upon her lips.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” she asked.
Link did not reply. He could not. He was so taken with her simple words. Her voice was the soft sound of the sea; it rolled over him and then withdrew, leaving him refreshed.
She turned and began walking again, as if to indicate that Link should follow her. He did this, and they walked for several minutes in what Link felt was an awkward silence.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, she stopped as they approached an object lying on the beach ahead of them. She huddled down to examine it, and Link watched as her fingers lightly touched the quivering body of a mutated fish, washed up helplessly onto the sand. Its slimy skin reflected the moonglow; its solitary eye stared upward at Link. He could almost feel the hopelessness that radiated from that eye.
The girl took the sea-thing into her hands.
Before she stood, Link forced himself to speak. “Do you … collect them?” His voice was shallow, fraught with tension.
“In a way.” She looked up and smiled. “But only the living.”
Link did not immediately understand the reply. He could only watch as she stood up, holding the limp creature in her right hand. A wave broke on the beach, and she drew back her arm and tossed the large-eyed thing far out into the deep water. It fell and disappeared beyond the breakers.
“Perhaps it will live now …” she said as she wiped her hands on her faded jeans.
Link looked at her cautiously, not wanting her to know that he was studying her. She was attractive in an odd sort of way. It had something to do with the collection of outstanding characteristics, but Link was not able to articulate it. Her skin was cool ivory; her eyes were large, black pearls, her hair was a raven fall, tangled by the salt spray. He was embarrassed that she should look upon his cracked, star-burned features, that she should tolerate his awkward presence.
“I saw you before,” he said finally, aware of the silence but almost sorry that he had disturbed it. “Back there, I mean. When I was coming up the beach.”
She nodded and pushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
“Do you walk here very often?” He wished to hear her voice again.
“Oh, yes.” She paused and laughed lightly, casting a quick glance out to the sea. “Every night. But not always this beach.” She glanced down at the sand. “There are so many beaches along this coast … and so many nights.”
Link could only nod his head in agreement, although he did not really understand her. He followed her in silence as she began walking again. Entering a small cove, she came upon another beached creature which still glistened with the faint glow of life. Spying it, Link was repulsed by its shape—a blistered, crab-like thing with long, sagging antennae. He stood dumbly as she bent down and picked up the thing in her delicate fingers. Again she threw it back to the dark waters. It made a brief splash of whiteness as it struck the surface, and then it was gone.
Saying nothing this time, she continued to walk, and Link followed. He was struck then as to how futile her mission actually was. No matter how many of them she could save from oblivion each night, he thought, the difference was sure to be slight. She must have known, he thought, that death raced across the beaches of the planet at a pace far greater than hers, collecting more than she ever could.
But he did not tell her this. Instead, he asked, “Do you live close by?”
“In the City, with my father. He used to be a fisherman, many years ago. Now they have machines that do a better job.”
She stopped, as her eyes looked past him, scanning the immediate strip of beach ahead of them. It was as if their conversation was not important, but rather something to fill in the idle moments of her mission. But she must have noticed Link’s disappointment with this, because she seemed to catch herself up in this action and return her gaze to Link. He too felt the change and he hoped that she possessed some magical, mystical talent that would tell her that Link needed to talk. He wanted her to know that he was so terribly alone in a world that he did not like.
“What about you?” she said gently. “Are you from this area too?”
He tensed unconsciously, although he appreciated her interest in him. She was staring at him and he was captivated by the almost bottomless depths of her eyes. There was a pause before he answered. “Oh, no, not really the installation, back up that way.” He pointed toward the direction from which he had come. “I’m … staying there for a while.”
“I thought so,” she said nodding. Her voice was still as soft as the gentle roll of the surf. “I recognized the emblem on your jumpsuit.”
He was not surprised by her perceptiveness; yet it made him wonder if she knew what he was. Or rather, what he had been. He was sure that she would think it a most unnatural existence. The thought was unsettling, and Link cast it from his mind.
They walked farther. The moon was higher, and it no longer cut a yellow swath across the sea’s emerald surface. Link grew more captivated by her, by her warmth that be so dearly needed. Words rattled through his mind, but he could not say them. He felt the conflicts rising up inside his head; he was becoming confused.
Then there came a roaring in his ears that he knew did not come from the sea around him. It grew until it was a scream echoing down the corridors of space and time, and Link knew she could not hear it. The moon fell. The sea swam in mind-darkness and the wind became the hot breath of alien stars. His mouth filled with the salty taste of stars’ blood.
He faltered, staggering away from her.
“Are you all right?” Her voice slipped gently between the layers of madness.
Pressing his hands to his temples, he turned away. “No.” He almost shouted the word. “No … it’s nothing. I’m okay.” Memories and sensations from another time raged through him. There was a curtain of darkness enveloping him. He wanted to avoid her; he did not want her to see him during the attack. “I’ve got to go now …” he heard a strange voice saying. Was it his own? He could no longer be positive, as he battled to keep control. Images flickered past his eyes: warps, pulsars, coronas, and a thousand more all at once. Link watched them with fear and fascination as he floated in a netherworld of delusion.