by Geary Gravel
For a moment I was sick with fury. I wanted to ride after them in the droshky and drive them out of the water, hunt them down, punish them for their desecration. The moment passed, and, suddenly weary, I mounted the machine and headed away from the river, back up the hill to search out a tree where I might spread my groundskin and escape into sleep.
But I lay awake long past sunset, finally passing into a fitful sleep. I dreamed of half-seen shapes with silver fingers dragging me out of the groundskin and off through the grass, down
the hill to the edge of a black river, where I was lashed by ropes to the back of a cold, pale corpse while small things crawled and squirmed between us. When dawn came I found myself sitting upright with my arms clutching a leg of the droshky, my throat dry and sore as though I'd been speaking for hours.
After much internal debate I decided to go down to the river again and face my fears. I wanted to take holos of the dead shell of'the kin, and perhaps attempt a tissue sample as well. I had labeled the nest builders herbivorous. It seemed now that I had been mistaken; there was at least one unexpected supplement to their diet of rivergrass and reeds.
I left the droshky at the campsite, using the long walk to clear my head. When I reached the top of the hill overlooking the river I stopped in my tracks.
This time there were two figures in the grass by the scented plumes: a male and a female kin, very much alive. When I realized what they were doing I felt as if I had been struck by lightning. I sat down heavily and watched them for a long time, feeling somewhere between zoologist and voyeur.
I recognized the female after a while. Number Seven from the territory just south of this one. The male was unknown to me. At some point I crept closer, fumbling for the holocube in my pouch. I never turned it on. They were quite beautiful together, in a mechanical sort of way.
At length they rose. The male departed immediately, walking off in a course roughly north by northeast. The female knelt for a few minutes to drink from the river, then wandered slowly downstream.
Now I have a theory which I should set down before I lose the thread of it, or before I convince myself that it is too fantastic. For the first time I am sure that they are all tied together. Not just by the sameness of their appearance, the bland repetition of activities from one territory to the next. I think that they are tied, joined utterly in some great sharing our senses and our instruments cannot perceive.
Think of the barrier we all felt to varying degrees on our first approach to the kin. Could it be that our physical resemblance to them allows us to experience a weak manifestation of the force that keeps them confined to their separate terri—
lories? Like a particle held in place invisibly, by the intersection of fields of power?
Then, when one of them dies, something happens to the rest of them. A signal goes out, or perhaps a signal ceases. A barrier dissolves and two other kin—the nearest two of opposite sex, I am guessing—are drawn into the now-vacant territory. Drawn to the location of the deceased kin. Drawn to mate.
The male leaves. The female leaves. I watched them only hours ago, moving off in nearly opposite directions. What now? I believe they have gone to resume their places in the web, to center their own territories again. And then at some point, probably several months from now, the female will return here long enough to give birth to a child. A male child, if the pattern is to be fulfilled to that degree of precision.
Food is always available. There are no predators here. I am convinced the water-nest builders were acting out their own part of the pattern when they took Number Four's body into the river. Nothing suggests that they would attack a living kin.
So a child will be born into the design, and as it grows it will be cared for by the pattern. It will not fall into the river. It will not know that the river exists. It will not know that it exists itself. It will never do more than eat and sleep and wander its world, fulfilling itself in this manner until the day when it too becomes old enough to die.
CHAPTER 11
The Alchemist must previously fast for a hundred days and purify himself with perfume....
The Adept must moreover learn the method directly
from those skilled in
the Art. Books are inadequate.
What is written in books is only
enough for beginners. . . .
The An can moreover only be learned by those who are specially blessed. People are born under suitable or unsuitable stars.
Above all, belief is necessary. Disbelief brings failure....
FROM THE WRITINGS OF PAOP'U-TZU
I
Emrys had learned from experience that it was wisest to enter the north high room without waiting for .permission, whether or not the door stood open. Rapping for admittance
168
produced nothing more than frustration, while the empath had expressed neither an appreciation of nor a desire for privacy since he had taken up residence with them in the Hut.
Sometimes Emrys would enter to find the room's occupant asleep: a surprising sight, for he slept curled up on a pallet in the conventional manner, with eyes closed and pale features careless, almost childlike, in repose. But just as often, he would be found cross-legged on the bare floor, face a rigid mask, eyes shut or staring, muttering in a soft, rhythmless monotone. And occasionally, as was the case today, the empath would be standing in the center of the room, gazing straight ahead at the always-empty gray wall, when Emrys sauntered in.
Emrys made the finger motions that would summon a bodyhug from the bare floor, and then stood near the empath so the chair would rise between them.
"I need an answer to something, if your mind is on the premises today." He perched on the edge of the chair, kneading tension from the back of his neck as he spoke.
"March has been filling my ear with complaints. The Dance is becoming more and more ineffectual. Then just a few minutes ago he told me of a rather peculiar interaction he witnessed involving yourself and the creature. Pertaining to the eyes." Emrys made a vague gesture. "I'm sure you remember. It could be important to our work. Did you in fact have some influence over the actions of the kin that day, as March believes?"
Surprisingly, the empath spoke at once, his meticulously vacant expression remaining undisturbed "There was a brief contact. I walked my body past the kin. Its eyes were drawn to follow. This flowed unbidden between us: interface, the lightest of meshing."
Emrys squinted at the other man. "Could you make it do something like that again if you tried?"
"Unknown. Doubtful."
Emrys slumped back into the bodyhug. Exquisitely sensitive, the chair began at once to apply subtle pressure at selected points along his sides and back. Temperature gradients were established, textures altered. Emrys half closed his eyes.
"That's no good. We need real control. I thought we might
have found another avenue-----Ah, serious problems with the
programming. Something's fighting the imposition of the Dance,
great chunks of it, anyway. We're left with a sloppy patchwork and no way of augmenting the process. And now there's a growing danger of overdoing it, burning out the kin if we don't tread lightly. Should it come to a choice..." His eyes closed, and he surrendered to the chair's ministrations.
There was silence in the room. Emrys' thoughts lazed toward sleep. Though he was not completely aware of the fact, Emrys no longer equated the empath's presence in a room with that of a "normal" human being; he felt no compunction about napping while the other remained standing at his side, dark gaze directed at some indefinable point on an empty wall.
Minutes passed. Emrys had embarked on a strange dream-voyage, which seemed to take him beneath the opalescent surface of Belthannis' great oceans. He swept through levels of colored light and jeweled darkness, feeling himself to be huge, yet moving effortlessly through the shimmering currents, surrounded by a gathering of massive, dimly seen companions. Deeper they went, moving always in concert, unfailingly g
raceful. We are one, he heard his own voice say clearly, the single thought expressed in different tongues....
Then another voice intruded. The empath's dry whisper came to him, breaking his dream, hauling him unwillingly back up to the small tired body in the grey room. He stiffened in the chair and opened his eyes.
The empath stood quietly, still scanning dust motes on the wall. '
"You—did you call me?" Emrys felt awkward on the edge of the chair, disoriented in the tiny, clumsy body. The sensation ebbed. "I guess I drifted off for a moment."
"In fact you traveled luminous depths," the empath remarked. "Downward silently you went, escorted by shadows, rapt in exploration."
"Kindly stay out of my dreams," Emrys snapped. "I thought you didn't see into a person's mind after all. You told me it was only feelings you fished for."
"Prolonged exposure to a specific matrix increases the accuracy of informed interpretation. You spoke aloud several times as well."
"In other words, it was a lucky guess. Did you say something while I was down there, or was that part of the dream?"
The empath inclined his sleek head toward the wall. "Augmentation of control method exists as a probability of some substance."
"Hmm?" Emrys came suddenly to full attention. "Wait a minute. Of what? The kin—it can be controlled more fully? How? You said before there was barely any 'meshing' between the two of you."
The dark eyes turned to Emrys. "A technique was devised in time past by an imago to effect the partial control of non-sentient life. The matrix of that individual's mind now resides within my own. The technique necessitates the employment of passive, noncommunicant minds, linked and guided by the proper focus. If successful, a temporary transference of a small portion of the noumenon would eventuate."
"You're saying you could give the thing a temporary mind, aren't you?" Emrys leaned forward, face furrowed in concentration, his abrupt movements causing the bodyhug to quiver petulantly. "Not that we could ever consider such a thing—" He tapped with his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Hut, send March to me. Then I want no interruptions in here until I speak to you again. Now, Chassman, will you explain this procedure to me in detail?"
The empath turned slowly away, eyes like points of night returning to the gray wall. "I will tell you what must be done," the empath said softly.
"—when it too becomes old enough to die."
A small tone signified the end of the recording, and the journal shut itself off. Cil raised her forehead from quaking hands and brushed back a lock of hair. A month of changes showed on her: ivory skin had darkened to a clear, light honey in the sun. The white scar of a deep scratch showed along one cheekbone just above the blue tulip.
The Hearth Room was dim, a lone wanderlight drifting aimlessly beneath the domed ceiling.
"Will someone say something?" Cil asked finally.
"It died," Raille murmured in a puzzled tone, eyes on the mute band of silver at the center of the table. "It died."
Emrys stirred on the opposite side of the table.
"Fascinating," he said softly. "A new dimension to the problem."
"Hmf." Marysu stretched and yawned. "A very old one, that last. I'd begun to forget they were only animals after all. I'll keep an eye on our little innocent after this."
Choss grimaced in distaste and gestured at the recording device. "A new dimension, Emrys? How does this touch upon our own work? Our kin seems young enough, though I'm no judge of physical age."
"He's young," Raille said beside him.
Across the table the Group Leader shrugged. "Cil may cor-, reel me if I'm misreading her report, but it would seem to suggest a rigidity in the actions of the kin—a degree of compulsion far beyond what we'd imagined. Since our" work requires the imposition of a new assortment of compulsions, I find it significant that March has recently been reporting much difficulty in the implementation of the Dance. Perhaps this deep connection that Cil posits is the origin of the resistance we've been encountering." He turned to Cil. "Work has slowed this past month. Designing workable templates consumes most of March's time."
"Templates are sound." The soldier batted contemptuously at the pile of transparencies in front of him. "It's fighting every move, and the ones I drum into it are all skewed one way or the other. Thing's like trying to train a rock."
"To force him might be damaging," Raille said tentatively. "We still don't really know what stress the Dance puts on him."
"But should we continue to use the Dance at all?" Jefany asked. "We could be preventing him without knowing it from performing some vital function. Suppose it had been the kin in the territory out east of the Verres who had died, instead of Cil's faraway Number Four. Then our kin would be the nearest male, yes? What would have happened if we'd had him Dancing at that point and he wasn't able to fulfill his part of the pattern?"
"Ach, poor thing," Marysu drawled. "Perhaps we should draw up a list of volunteers to substitute in that eventuality."
She traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip. "Jack?"
"This is not a fit subject for humor," Cil said. "It frightens me. If you could feel it as I do, the coming together, the overlapping strands..."
Marysu turned her eyes to the ceiling with a sigh of exaggerated boredom.
"Are you saying we should stop our work?" Jefany asked. "Is it that serious, Cil?"
"I don't know—there are pieces missing everywhere. How can I tell? It may already be too late."
"Look here," Marysu said in an exasperated tone. "We have just two choices: muddle ahead as we've been doing, paragons of altruism all, trying our best to save these pretty simpletons from the Sauf Cohen; or we can let ourselves be paralyzed with doubt, and watch the whole half-finished business turn to spurge. If this argument sounds familiar to you, Cil, it's because I'm paraphrasing a short lecture you once delivered to me on a somewhat similar theme."
The empath entered the room on the heels of Marysu's exposition, postponing an immediate reaction to her words with the customary ripple of tension and wariness his presence still evoked.
Walking to an empty spot at the table, he used the manual controls to summon forth a glass of his murky protein brew, then retreated quietly to an alcove, where he sat in the shadow of the two great watershelves which had been erected by the Hut that morning to display the finest of Choss' hobby-fish.
"It would be wonderful if we could reach them, wouldn't it?" Raille said in a dreaming voice, her gaze lingering on the tall oblongs of confined liquid and the dark blur behind them. "Somehow to let them know what we're trying to accomplish here, and that we only want to help—"
"That would be lovely," Marysu said brightly: "Let's try it first thing tomorrow, shall we? Just sit one down and talk a little sense into him."
Jack leaned past her and lifted a decanter of blue. "If there were such a thing as justice on this or any other world," he remarked as he filled the linguist's glass, "this would be laced with a rare and deadly poison."
"Isn't there any way to get through to them, Cil?" Choss
asked earnestly. "Not to talk to them, of course, but to touch them, to make ourselves exist for them? Even an animal is aware to that extent."
"Oh, Choss, if we could disguise you as a sufficiently tasty-looking piece of redfruit, I believe the kin might condescend to take a bite of you come feeding time. But it would be seeing the redfruit only—not you, not a man, never a new thing. All that it can perceive are those things which already fit its pattern, and the pattern so far is unalterable, thank God. Other than that—" She spread her hands.
"Other than that"—the empath startled them all by speaking softly from his dim corner—"the creature itself would have to be altered, its brain changed to admit perception of new stimuli."
"God-Lord," Marysu choked above her dark wineglass. "Did one of the fish say that?"
"In which case, it would no longer be the same creature," Cil responded evenly, her eyes on the dark, unmoving figure, "but som
ething entirely new and different—which, as Emrys will tell you, is not our goal at all."
"But a change in perception—" Choss began.
"When a man dies his perceptions are changed. They cease," Cil said quickly. "But you know a dead man is not the same as a living one, and no real comparisons can be made between the two."
"Nor is an adult the same as a child," Emrys said, exchanging glances with March as he spoke. "It strikes me that a certain amount of—change—is to be expected of all living things. Are any of us the same people we were five weeks ago? Five minutes ago? Our environment touches us in a thousand different ways and we change. Is mis necessarily a bad thing?"
"I can't define good and bad for you, Emrys," Cil said. "I can only tell you what I see here. The kin's environment touches it, but the kin does not change."
"Of course, of course." His face had taken on an introspective frown.
Choss reached for the wine. "We always speak as if the kin were a product of this world. As if it were some super-adapted being resulting from natural processes. But why must we suppose we're the first to come here with the idea of tampering? Isn't it just as probable that the kin themselves came first—
from somewhere else, maybe—and then this habitat was designed to fit them? Or maybe they really were humans like ourselves at one time, till someone else came down and 'helped' them to get along better with their world. Mightn't the answers be more plentiful if we asked our questions from a less restricted perspective? Then at least the world might start to make sense, if the kin did not."
Raille said softly: "I don't think any answers will come from separating the kin and his world, Choss."
"Neither do I, but I can't justify it beyond a feeling," Cil said, rubbing her eyes with a yawn. "Not at this hour, anyway. You may very well be right, Choss. I don't know. I'm so tired. A pleasant sleep to you all."
That night after the others had retired, Emrys returned to the north high room. He remained there until very late, threading his way through the labyrinth of interrogation necessary to elicit useful information from the empath.