PERMAFROST
by Roger Zelazny

[23 nov 2001—scanned and proofed for #bookz]

Many elements mingle to make this remarkable story. Some of these elements belong to the structures of fantasy, some to those of science fiction. The talent of Roger Zelazny combines then all in a colorful yarn through which runs the steady thread of the sense of wonder.

High upon the western slope of Mount Kilimanjaro is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. An author is always necessary to explain what it was doing there because stiff leopards don't talk much.

THE MAN. The music seems to come and go with a will of its own. At least turning the knob on the bedside unit has no effect on its presence or absence. A half-familiar, alien tune, troubling in a way. The phone rings, and he answers it. There is no one there. Again.
Four times during the past half hour, while grooming himself, dressing and rehearsing his arguments, he has received non-calls. When he checked with the desk he was told there were no calls. But that damned clerk-thing had to be malfunctioning—like everything else in this place.
The wind, already heavy, rises, hurling particles of ice against the building with a sound like multitudes of tiny claws scratching. The whining of steel shutters sliding into place startles him. But worst of all, in his reflex glance at the nearest window, it seems he has seen a face.
Impossible of course. This is the third floor. A trick of light upon hard-driven flakes: Nerves.
Yes. He has been nervous since their arrival this morning. Before then, even . . .
He pushes past Dorothy's stuff upon the countertop, locates a small package among his own articles. He unwraps a flat red rectangle about the size of his thumbnail. He rolls up his sleeve and slaps the patch against the inside of his left elbow.
The tranquilizer discharges immediately into his bloodstream. He takes several deep breaths, then peels off the patch and drops it into the disposal unit. He rolls his sleeve down, reaches for his jacket.
The music rises in volume, as if competing with the blast of the wind, the rattle of the icy flakes. Across the room the videoscreen comes on of its own accord.
The face. The same face. Just for an instant. He is certain. And then channelless static, wavy lines. Snow. He chuckles.
All right, play it that way, nerves, he thinks. You \>e every reason. But the (rank's coming to get you now. Better have your fun quick. You 're about to be shut down.
The videoscreen cuts into a porn show.
Smiling, the woman mounts the man. . . .
The picture switches to a voiceless commentator on something or other.
He will survive. He is a survivor. He, Paul Plaige, has done risky things before and has always made it through. It is just that having Dorothy along creates a kind of deja vu that he finds unsettling. No matter.
She is waiting for him in the bar. Let her wait. A few drinks will make her easier to persuade—unless they make her bitchy. That sometimes happens, too. Either way, he has to talk her out of the thing.
Silence. The wind stops. The scratching ceases. The music is gone.
The whirring. The window screens dilate upon the empty city.
Silence, under totally overcast skies. Mountains of ice ringing the place. Nothing moving. Even the video has gone dead.
He recoils at the sudden flash from a peripheral unit far to his left across the city. The laser beam hits a key point on the glacier, and its face falls away.
Moments later he hears the hollow, booming sound of the crashing ice. A powdery storm has risen like surf at the ice mount's foot. He smiles at the power, the timing, the display. Andrew Aldon . . . always on the job, dueling with the elements, stalemating nature herself, immortal guardian of Playpoint. At least Aldon never malfunctions.
The silence comes again. As he watches the risen snows settle he feels the tranquilizer beginning to work. It will be good not to have to worry about money again. The past two years have taken a lot out of him. Seeing all of his investments fail in the Big Washout— that was when his nerves had first begun to act up. He has grown softer than he was a century ago—a young, rawboned soldier of fortune then, out to make his bundle and enjoy it. And he had. Now he has to do it again, though this time will be easier—except for Dorothy.
He thinks of her. A century younger than himself, still in her twenties, sometimes reckless, used to all of the good things in life. There is something vulnerable about Dorothy, times when she lapses into such a strong dependence that he feels oddly moved. Other times, it just irritates the hell out of him. Perhaps this is the closest he can come to love now, and occasional ambivalent response to being needed. But of course she is loaded. That breeds a certain measure of necessary courtesy. Until he can make his own bundle again, anyway. But none of these things are the reason he has to keep her from accompanying him on his journey. It goes beyond love or money. It is survival.
The laser flashes again, this time to the right. He waits for the crash.

THE STATUE. It is not a pretty pose. She lies frosted in an ice cave, looking like one of Rodin's less comfortable figures, partly propped on her left side, right elbow raised above her head, hand hanging near her face, shoulders against the wall, left leg completely buried.
She has on a gray parka, the hood slipped back to reveal twisted strands of dark blond hair; and she wears blue trousers; there is a black boot on the one foot that is visible.
She is coated with ice, and within the much-refracted light of the cave what can be seen of her features is not unpleasant but not strikingly attractive either. She looks to be in her twenties.
There are a number of fracture lines within the cave's walls and floor. Overhead, countless icicles hang like stalactites, sparkling jewellike in the much-bounced light. The grotto has a stepped slope to it with the statue at its higher end, giving to the place a vaguely shrinelike appearance.
On those occasions when the cloud cover is broken at sundown a reddish light is cast about her figure.
She has actually moved in the course of a century—a few inches, from a general shifting of the ice. Tricks of the light make her seem to move more frequently, however.
The entire tableau might give the impression that this is merely a pathetic woman who had been trapped and frozen to death here, rather than the statue of the living goddess in the place where it all began.

THE WOMAN. She sits in the bar beside a window. The patio outside is gray and angular and drifted with snow; the flowerbeds are filled with dead plants—stiff, flattened, and frozen. She does not mind the view. Far from it. Winter is a season of death and cold, and she likes being reminded of it. She enjoys the prospect of pitting herself against its frigid and very visible fangs. A faint flash of light passes over the patio, followed by a distant roaring sound. She sips her drink and licks her lips and listens to the soft music that fills the air.
She is alone. The bartender and all of the other help here are of the mechanical variety. If anyone other than Paul were to walk in, she would probably scream. They are the only people in the hotel during this long off-season. Except for the sleepers, they are the only people in all of Play point.
And Paul . . . He will be along soon to take her to the dining room. There they can summon holo-ghosts to people the other tables, if they wish. She does not wish. She likes being alone with Paul at a time like this, on the eve of a great adventure.
He will tell her his plans over coffee, and perhaps even this afternoon they might obtain the necessary equipment to begin the exploration for that which would put him on his feet again financially, return to him his self-respect. It will of course be dangerous and very rewarding. She finishes her drink, rises, and crosses to the bar for another.
And Paul . . . She had really caught a falling star, a swashbuckler on the way down, a man with a glamorous past just balanced on the brink of ruin. The teetering had already begun when they had met two years before, which had made it even more exciting. Of course, he needed a woman like her to lean upon at such a time. It wasn't just her money. She could never believe the things her late parents had said about him. No, he does care for her. He is strangely vulnerable and dependent.
She wants to turn him back into the man he once must have been, and then of course that man will need her, too. The thing he had been—that is what she needs most of all—a man who can reach up and bat the moon away. He must have been like that long ago.
She tastes her second drink.
The son of a bitch had better hurry, though. She is getting hungry.

THE CITY. Playpoint is located on the world known as Balfrost, atop a high peninsula that slopes down to a now-frozen sea. Play-point contains all of the facilities for an adult playground, and it is one of the more popular resorts in this sector of the galaxy from late spring through early autumn—approximately fifty Earth years. Then winter comes on like a period of glaciation, and everybody goes away for half a century—or half a year, depending on how one regards such matters. During this time Playpoint is given into the care of its automated defense and maintenance routine. This is a self-repairing system, directed toward cleaning, plowing, thawing, melting, warming everything in need of such care, as well as directly combating their encroaching ice and snow. And all of these functions are one under the supervision of a well-protected central computer that also studies the weather and climate patterns, anticipating as well as reacting.
This system had worked successfully for many centuries, delivering Playpoint over to spring and pleasure in reasonably good condition at the end of each long winter.
There are mountains behind Playpoint, water (or ice, depending on the season) on three sides, weather and navigation satellites high above. In a bunker beneath the administration building is a pair of sleepers—generally a man and a woman—who awaken once every year or so to physically inspect the maintenance system's operations and to deal with any special situations that might have arisen. An alarm may arouse them for emergencies at any time.
They are well paid, and over the years they have proven worth the investment. The central computer has at its disposal explosives and lasers as well as a great variety of robots. Usually it keeps a little ahead of the game, and it seldom falls behind for long.
At the moment, things are about even because the weather has been particularly nasty recently.
Zzzzt! Another block of ice has become a puddle.
Zzzzt! The puddle has been evaporated. The molecules climb toward a place where they can get together and return as snow.
The glaciers shuffle their feet, edge forward. Zzzzt! Their gain gain has become a loss.
Andrew Aldon knows exactly what he is doing.

CONVERSATIONS. The waiter, needing lubrication, rolls off after having served them, passing through a pair of swinging doors.
She giggles. "Wobbly," she says.
"Old World charm," he agrees, trying and failing to catch her eye as he smiles.
"You have everything worked out?" she asks after they have begun eating.
"Sort of," he says, smiling again.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"Both. I need more information. I want to go and check things over first. Then I can figure the best course of action."
"I note your use of the singular pronoun," she says steadily, meeting his gaze at last.
His smile freezes and fades.
"I was referring to only a little preliminary scouting," he says softly.
"No," she says. "We. Even for a little preliminary scouting."
He sighs and sets down his fork.
"This will have very little to do with anything to come later," he begins. "Things have changed a lot. I'll have to locate a new route. This will just be dull work and no fun."
"I didn't come along for fun," she replies. "We were going to share everything, remember? That includes boredom, danger, and anything else. That was the understanding when I agreed to pay our way."
"I'd a feeling it would come to that," he says, after a moment.
"Come to it? It's always been there. That was our agreement."
He raises his goblet and sips the wine.
"Of course. I'm not trying to rewrite history. It's just that things would go faster if I could do some of the initial looking around myself. I can move more quickly alone."
"What's the hurry?" she says. "A few days this way or that. I'm in pretty good shape. I won't slow you down all that much."
"I'd the impression you didn't particularly like it here. I just wanted to hurry things up so we could get the hell out."
"That's very considerate," she says, beginning to eat again. "But that's my problem, isn't it?" She looks up at him. "Unless there's some other reason you don't want me along?"
He drops his gaze quickly, picks up his fork. "Don't be silly."
She smiles. "Then that's settled. I'll go with you this afternoon to look for the trail."
The music stops, to be succeeded by a sound as of the clearing of a throat. Then, "Excuse me for what may seem like eavesdropping," comes a deep, masculine voice. "It is actually only a part of a simple monitoring function I keep in effect—"
"Aldon!" Paul exclaims.
"At your service, Mr. Plaige, more or less. I choose to make my presence known only because I did indeed overhear you, and the matter of your safety overrides the good manners that would otherwise dictate reticence. I've been receiving reports that indicate we could be hit by some extremely bad weather this afternoon. So if you were planning an extended sojourn outside I would recommend you postpone it."
"Oh," Dorothy says.
"Thanks," Paul says.
"I shall now absent myself. Enjoy your meal and your stay."
The music returns.
"Aldon?" Paul asks.
There is no reply.
"Looks as if we do it tomorrow or later."
"Yes," Paul agrees, and he is smiling his first relaxed smile of the day. And thinking fast.

THE WORLD. Life on Balfrost proceeds in peculiar cycles. There are great migrations of animal life and quasi-animal life to the equatorial regions during the long winter. Life in the depths of the seas goes on. And the permafrost vibrates with its own style of life.
The permafrost. Throughout the winter and on through the spring the permafrost lives at its peak. It is laced with mycelia— twining, probing, touching, knotting themselves into ganglia, reaching out to infiltrate other systems. It girds the globe, vibrating like a collective unconscious throughout the winter. In the spring it sends up stalks that develop gray, flowerlike appendages for a few days. These blooms then collapse to reveal dark pods that subsequently burst with small, popping sounds, releasing clouds of sparkling spores that the winds bear just about everywhere. These are extremely hardy, like the mycelia they will one day become.
The heat of summer finally works its way down into the permafrost, and the strands doze their way into a long period of quiescence. When the cold returns they are roused, spores send forth new filaments that repair old damages, create new synapses. A current begins to flow. The life of summer is like a fading dream. For eons this had been the way of things upon Balfrost, within Balfrost. Then the goddess decreed otherwise. Winter's queen spread her hands, and there came a change.

THE SLEEPERS. Paul makes his way through swirling flakes to the administration building. It has been a simpler matter than he had anticipated, persuading Dorothy to use the sleep-induction unit to be well rested for the morrow. He had pretended to use the other unit himself, resisting its blandishments until he was certain she was asleep and he could slip off undetected.
He lets himself into the vaultlike building, takes all of the old familiar turns, makes his way down a low ramp. The room is unlocked and a bit chilly, but he begins to perspire when he enters. The two cold lockers are in operation. He checks their monitoring systems and sees that everything is in order.
All right, go! Borrow the equipment now. They won't be using it.
He hesitates.
He draws nearer and looks down through the view plates at the faces of the sleepers. No resemblance, thank God. He realizes then that he is trembling. He backs away, turns, and flees toward the storage area.
Later, in a yellow snowslider, carrying special equipment, he heads inland.
As he drives, the snow ceases falling and the winds die down. He smiles. The snows sparkle before him, and landmarks do not seem all that unfamiliar. Good omens, at last.
Then something crosses his path, turns, halts, and faces him.

ANDREW ALDON. Andrew Aldon, once a man of considerable integrity and resource, had on his deathbed opted for continued existence as a computer program, the enchanted loom of his mind shuttling and weaving thereafter as central processing's judgmental program in the great guardian computerplex at Playpoint. And there he functions as a program of considerable integrity and resource. He maintains the city, and he fights the elements. He does not merely respond to pressures, but he anticipates structural and functional needs; he generally outguesses the weather. Like the professional soldier he once had been he keeps himself in a state of constant alert—not really difficult considering the resources available to him. He is seldom wrong, always competent, and sometimes brilliant. Occasionally he resents his fleshless state. Occasionally he feels lonely.
This afternoon he is puzzled by the sudden veering off of the storm he had anticipated and by the spell of clement weather that has followed this meteorological quirk. His mathematics were elegant, but the weather was not. It seems peculiar that this should come at a time of so many other little irregularities, such as unusual ice adjustments, equipment glitches, and the peculiar behavior of machinery in the one occupied room of the hotel—a room troublesomely tenanted by a non grata ghost from the past.
So he watches for a time. He is ready to intervene when Paul enters the administration building and goes to the bunkers. But Paul does nothing that might bring harm to the sleepers. His curiosity is dominant when Paul draws equipment. He continues to watch. This is because in his judgment, Paul bears watching.
Aldon decides to act only when he detects a development that runs counter to anything in his experience. He sends one of his mobile units to intercept Paul as the man heads out of town. It catches up with him at a bending of the way and slides into his path with one appendage upraised.
"Stop!" Aldon calls through the speaker.
Paul brakes his vehicle and sits for a moment regarding the machine.
Then he smiles faintly. "I assume you have good reason for interfering with a guest's freedom of movement."
"Your safety takes precedence."
"I am perfectly safe."
"At the moment."
"What do you mean?"
"This weather pattern has suddenly become more than a little unusual. You seem to occupy a drifting island of calm while a storm rages about you."
"So I'll take advantage of it now and face the consequences later, if need be."
"It is your choice. I wanted it to be an informed one, however."
"All right. You've informed me. Now get out of my way."
"In a moment. You departed under rather unusual circumstances the last time you were here—in breach of your contract."
"Check your legal bank if you've got one. That statute's run for prosecuting me on that."
"There are some things on which there is no statute of limitations."
"What do you mean by that? I turned in a report on what happened that day."
"One which—conveniently—could not be verified. You were arguing that day. . . ."
"We always argued. That's just the way we were. If you have something to say about it, say it."
"No, I have nothing more to say about it. My only intention is to caution you—"
"Okay, I'm cautioned."
"To caution you in more ways than the obvious."
"I don't understand."
"I am not certain that things are the same here now as when you left last winter."
"Everything changes."
"Yes, but that is not what I mean. There is something peculiar about this place now. The past is no longer a good guide for the present. More and more anomalies keep cropping up. Sometimes it feels as if the world is testing me or playing games with me."
"You're getting paranoid, Aldon. You've been in that box too long. Maybe it's time to terminate."
"You son of a bitch, I'm trying to tell you something. I've run a lot of figures on this, and all this shit started shortly after you left. The human part of me still has hunches, and I've a feeling there's a connection. If you know all about this and can cope with it, fine. If you don't, I think you should watch out. Better yet, turn around and go home."
"I can't."
"Even if there is something out there, something that is making it easy for you—for the moment?"
"What are you trying to say?"
"I am reminded of the old Gaia hypothesis—Lovelock, twentieth century. . . ."
"Planetary intelligence. I've heard of it. Never met one, though."
"Are you certain? I sometimes feel I'm confronting one."
"What if something is out there and it wants you—is leading you on like a will-o'-the-wisp?"
"It would be my problem, not yours."
"I can protect you against it. Go back to Playpoint."
"No thanks. I will survive."
"What of Dorothy?"
"What of her?"
"You would leave her alone when she might need you?"
"Let me worry about that."
"Your last woman didn't fare too well."
"Damn it! Get out of my way, or I'll run you down!"
The robot withdraws from the trail. Through its sensors Aldon watches Paul drive away.
Very well, he decides. We know where we stand, Paul. And you haven't changed. That makes it easier.
Aldon further focuses his divided attention. To Dorothy now. Clad in heated garments. Walking. Approaching the building from which she had seen Paul emerge on his vehicle. She had hailed and cursed him, but the winds had carried her words away. She, too, had only feigned sleep. After a suitable time, then, she sought to follow. Aldon watches her stumble once and wants to reach out to assist her, but there is no mobile unit handy. He routes one toward the area against future accidents.
"Damn him!" she mutters as she passes along the street, ribbons of snow rising and twisting away before her.
"Where are you going, Dorothy?" Aldon asks over a nearby PA speaker.
She halts and turns. "Who—?"
"Andrew Aldon," he replies. "I have been observing your progress."
"Why?" she asks.
"Your safety concerns me."
"That storm you mentioned earlier?"
"Partly."
"I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. What do you mean partly?"
"You move in dangerous company."
"Paul? How so?"
"He once took a woman into that same wild area he is heading for now. She did not come back."
"He told me all about that. There was an accident."
"And no witnesses."
"What are you trying to say?"
"It is suspicious. That is all."
She begins moving again, toward the administrative building. Aldon switches to another speaker, within its entrance.
"I accuse him of nothing. If you choose to trust him, fine. But don't trust the weather. It would be best for you to return to the hotel."
"Thanks but no thanks," she says, entering the building.
He follows her as she explores, is aware of her quickening pulse when she halts beside the cold bunkers.
"These are the sleepers?"
"Yes. Paul held such a position once, as did the unfortunate woman."
"I know. Look, I'm going to follow him whether you approve or not. So why not just tell me where those sleds are kept?"
"Very well. I will do even more than that. I will guide you."
"What do you mean?"
"I request a favor—one that will actually benefit you."
"Name it."
"In the equipment locker behind you, you will find a remote-sensor bracelet. It is also a two-way communication link. Wear it. I can be with you then. To assist you. Perhaps even to protect you."
"You can help me to follow him?"
"Yes."
"All right. I can buy that."
She moves to the locker, opens it.
"Here's something that looks like a bracelet, with doodads."
"Yes. Depress the red stud."
She does. His voice now emerges clearly from the unit.
"Put it on, and I'll show you the way."
"Right."

SNOWSCAPE. Sheets and hills of white, tufts of evergreen shrubbery, protruding joints of rock, snowdevils twirled like tops beneath wind's lash . . . light and shade. Cracking sky. Tracks in sheltered areas, smoothness beyond.
She follows, masked and bundled.
"I've lost him," she mutters, hunched behind the curved windscreen of her yellow, bullet-shaped vehicle.
"Straight ahead, past those two rocks. Stay in the lee of the ridge. I'll tell you when to turn. I've a satellite overhead. If the clouds stay parted—strangely parted ..."
"What do you mean?"
"He seems to be enjoying light from the only break in the cloud cover over the entire area."
"Coincidence."
"I wonder."
"What else could it be?"
"It is almost as if something had opened a door for him."
"Mysticism from a computer?"
"I am not a computer."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Aldon. I know that you were once a man. . . ."
"I am still a man."
"Sorry."
"There are many things I would like to know. Your arrival comes at an unusual time of year. Paul took some prospecting equipment with him. ..."
"Yes. It's not against the law. In fact, it is one of the vacation features here, isn't it?"
"Yes. There are many interesting minerals about, some of them precious."
"Well, Paul wants some more, and he didn't want a crowd around while he was looking."
"More?"
"Yes, he made a strike here years ago. Yndella crystals."
"I see. Interesting."
"What's in this for you, anyway?"
"Protecting visitors is a part of my job. In your case, I feel particularly protective."
"How so?"
"In my earlier life I was attracted to women of your—specifications. Physical, as well as what I can tell of the rest."
"Two-beat pause, then, "You are blushing."
"Compliments do that to me," she says, "and that's a hell of a monitoring system you have. What's it like?"
"Oh, I can tell your body temperature, your pulse rate—"
"No, I mean, what's it like being—what you are?"
Three-beat pause. "Godlike in some ways. Very human in others —almost exaggeratedly so. I feel something of an amplification of everything I was earlier. Perhaps it's a compensation or a clinging to things past. You make me feel nostalgic—among other things. Don't fret. I'm enjoying it."
"I'd like to have met you then."
"Mutual."
"What were you like?"
"Imagine me as you would. I'll come off looking better that way."
She laughs. She adjusts her filters. She thinks about Paul.
"What was he like in his earlier days—Paul?" she asks.
"Probably pretty much the way he is now, only less polished."
"In other words, you don't care to say."
The trail turns upward more steeply, curves to the right. She hears winds but does not feel them. Cloud-shadow grayness lies all about, but her trail is lighted.
"I don't really know," Aldon says, after a time, "and I will not guess, in the case of someone you care about."
"Gallant," she observes.
"No, just fair," he replies. "I might be wrong."
They continue to the top of the rise, where Dorothy draws a sharp breath and further darkens her goggles against the sudden blaze where a range of ice fractures rainbows and strews their shards like confetti in all directions.
"God!" she says.
"Or goddess," Aldon replies.
"A goddess, sleeping in a circle of flame?"
"Not sleeping."
"That would be a lady for you, Aldon—if she existed. God and goddess."
"I do not want a goddess."
"I can see his tracks, heading into that."
"Not swerving a bit, as if he knows where he's going."
She follows, tracing slopes like the curves of a pale torso. The world is stillness and light and whiteness. Aldon on her wrist hums softly now, an old tune, whether oflove or martial matters she isn't certain. Distances are distorted, perspectives skewed. She finds herself humming softly along with him, heading for the place where Paul's tracks find their vanishing point and enter infinity.

THE LIMP WATCH HUNG UPON THE TREE LIMB. My lucky day. The weather . . . trail clean. Things changed but not so out of shape I can't tell where it is. The lights! God, yes! Iceshine, mounds of prisms. ... If only the opening is still there. . . . Should have brought explosives. There has been shifting, maybe a collapse. Must get in. Return later with Dorothy. But first—clean up, get rid of ... it. If she's still there. . . . Swallowed up maybe. That would be good, best. Things seldom are, though. I— When it happened. Wasn't as if. Wasn't what. Was. . . . Was shaking the ground. Cracking, splitting. Icicles ringing, rattling, banging about. Thought we'd go under. Both of us. She was going in. So was the bag of the stuff. Grabbed the stuff. Only because it was nearer. Would have helped her if—Couldn't. Could I? Ceiling was slipping. Get out. No sense both of us getting it. Got out. She'd've done the same. Wouldn't she? Her eyes. . . . Glenda! Maybe . . . No! Couldn't have. Just couldn't. Could I? Silly. After all these years. There was a moment. Just a moment, though. A lull. If I'd known it was coming I might have. No. Ran. Your face at the window, on the screen, in a sometime dream. Glenda. It wasn't that I didn't. Blaze of hills. Fire and eyes. Ice. Ice. Fire and snow. Blazing hearthful. Ice. Ice. Straight through the ice the long road lies. The fire hangs high above. The screaming. The crash. And the silence. Get out. Yet. Different? No. It could never have. That was the way. Not my fault. . . . Damn it. Everything I could. Glenda. Up ahead. Yes. Long curve. Then down. Winding back in there. The crystals will. . . . I'll never come back to this place.

THE LIMP TREE LIMB HUNG UPON THE WATCH. Gotcha! Think I can't see through the fog? Can't sneak up on me on little cat feet. Same for your partner across the way. Ill melt off a little more near your bases, too. A lot of housecleaning backed up here. . . . Might as well take advantage of the break. Get those streets perfect. . . . How long? Long. . . . Long legs parting. . . . Long time since. Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance? Unnatural. This weather. A sort of spiritual spring. . . . Extend those beams. Burn. Melt in my hot, red-fingered hands. Back off, I say. I rule here. Clear that courtyard. Unplug that drain. Come opportunity, let me clasp thee. Melt. Burn. I rule here, goddess. Draw back. I've a bomb for every tower of ice, a light for any darkness. Tread carefully here. I feel I begin to know thee. I see thy signature in cloud and fog bank, trace thy icy tresses upon the blowing wind. Thy form lies contoured all about me, white as shining death. We're due an encounter. Let the clouds spiral, ice ring, Earth heave. I rush to meet thee, death or maiden, in halls of crystal upon the heights. Not here. Long, slow fall, ice facade, crashing. Melt. Another. . . . Gotcha!

FROZEN WATCH EMBEDDED IN PERMAFROST. Bristle and thrum. Coming now. Perchance. Perchance. Perchance. I say. Throstle. Crack. Sunder. Split. Open. Coming. Beyond the ice in worlds I have known. Returning. He. Throstle. The mind the mover. To open the way. Come now. Let not to the meeting impediments. Admit. Open. Cloud stand thou still, and wind be leashed. None dare oppose thy passage returning, my killer love. It was but yesterday. A handful of stones. . . . Come singing fresh-armed from the warm places. I have looked upon thy unchanged countenance. I open the way. Come to me. Let not to the mating. I —Girding the globe. I have awakened in all of my places to receive thee. But here, here this special spot, I focus, mind the mover, in place where it all began, my bloody handed, Paul my love, calling, back, for the last good-bye, ice kiss, fire touch, heart stop, blood still, soul freeze, embrace of world and my hate with thy fugitive body, elusive the long year now. Come into the place it has waited. I move there again, up sciatic to spine, behind the frozen eyeballs, waiting and warming. To me. To me now. Throstle and click, bristle and thrum. And runners scratching the snow, my heart slashing parallel. Cut.

PILGRIMAGE. He swerves, turns, slows amid the ragged prominences—ice fallen, ice heaved—in the fields where mountain and glacier wrestle in slow motion, to the accompaniment of occasional cracking and pinging sounds, crashes, growls, and the rattle of blown ice crystals. Here the ground is fissured as well as greatly uneven, and Paul abandons his snowslider. He secures some tools to his belt and his pack, anchors the sled, and commences the trek.
At first, he moves slowly and carefully, but old reflexes return, and soon he is hurrying. Moving from dazzle to shade, he passes among ice forms like grotesque statues of glass. The slope is changed from the old one he remembers, but it feels right. And deep, below, to the right. . . .
Yes. That darker place. The canyon or blocked pass, whichever it was. That seems right, too. He alters his course slightly. He is sweating now within his protective clothing, and his breath comes faster as he increases his pace. His vision blurs, and for a moment, somewhere between glare and shadow, he seems to see. . . .
He halts, sways a moment, then shakes his head, snorts, and continues.
Another hundred meters and he is certain. Those rocky ribs to the northeast, snow rivulets diamond hard between them. . . . He has been here before.
The stillness is almost oppressive. In the distance he sees spumes of windblown snow jetting off and eddying down from a high, white peak. If he stops and listens carefully he can even hear the far winds.
There is a hole in the middle of the clouds, directly overhead. It is as if he were looking downward upon a lake in a crater.
More than unusual. He is tempted to turn back. His trank has worn off, and his stomach feels unsettled. He half-wishes to discover that this is not the place. But he knows that feelings are not very important. He continues until he stands before the opening.
There has been some shifting, some narrowing of the way. He approaches slowly. He regards the passage for a full minute before he moves to enter.
He pushes back his goggles as he comes into the lessened light. He extends a gloved hand, places it upon the facing wall, pushes. Firm. He tests the one behind him. The same.
Three paces forward and the way narrows severely. He turns and sidles. The light grows dimmer, the surface beneath his feet, more slick. He slows. He slides a hand along either wall as he advances. He passes through a tiny spot of light beneath an open ice chimney. Overhead, the wind is howling a high note now, almost whistling it.
The passage begins to widen. As his right hand falls away from the more sharply angling wall his balance is tipped in that direction. He draws back to compensate, but his left foot slides backward and falls. He attempts to rise, slips, and falls again.
Cursing, he begins to crawl forward. This area had not been slick before. . . . He chuckles. Before? A century ago. Things do change in a span like that. They—
The wind begins to howl beyond the cave mouth as he sees the rise of the floor, looks upward along the slope. She is there.
He makes a small noise at the back of his throat and stops, his right hand partly raised. She wears the shadows like veils, but they do not mask her identity. He stares. It's even worse than he had thought. Trapped, she must have lived for some time after. . . .
He shakes his head.
No use. She must be cut loose and buried now—disposed of.
He crawls forward. The icy slope does not grow level until he is quite near her. His gaze never leaves her form as he advances. The shadows slide over her. He can almost hear her again.
He thinks of the shadows. She couldn't have moved just then. ... He stops and studies her face. It is not frozen. It is puckered and sagging as if waterlogged. A caricature of the face he had so often touched. He grimaces and looks away. The leg must be freed. He reaches for his axe.
Before he can take hold of the tool he sees movement of the hand, slow and shaking. It is accompanied by a throaty sigh.
"No . . . ," he whispers, drawing back.
"Yes," comes the reply.
"Glenda."
"I am here." Her head turns slowly. Reddened, watery eyes focus upon his own. "I have been waiting."
"This is insane."
The movement of the face is horrible. It takes him some time to realize that it is a smile.
"I knew that one day you would return."
"How?" he says. "How have you lasted?"
"The body is nothing," she replies. "I had all but forgotten it. I live within the permafrost of this world. My buried foot was in contact with its filaments. It was alive, but it possessed no consciousness until we met. I live everywhere now."
"I am—happy—that you—survived."
She laughs slowly, dryly.
"Really, Paul? How could that be when you left me to die?"
"I had no choice, Glenda. I couldn't save you."
"There was an opportunity. You preferred the stones to my life."
"That's not true!"
"You didn't even try." The arms are moving again, less jerkily now. "You didn't even come back to recover my body."
"What would have been the use? You were dead—or I thought you were."
"Exactly. You didn't know, but you ran out anyway. I loved you, Paul. I would have done anything for you."
"I cared about you, too, Glenda. I would have helped you if I could have. If—"
"If? Don't if me ifs. I know what you are."
"I loved you," Paul says. "I'm sorry."
"You loved me? You never said it."
"It's not the sort of thing I talk about easily. Or think about, even."
"Show me," she says. "Come here."
He looks away. "I can't."
She laughs. "You said you loved me."
"You—you don't know how you look. I'm sorry."
"You fool!" Her voice grows hard, imperious. "Had you done it I would have spared your life. It would have shown me that some tiny drop of affection might truly have existed. But you lied. You only used me. You didn't care."
"You're being unfair!"
"Am I? Am I really?" she says. There comes a sound like running water from somewhere nearby. "You would speak to me of fairness? I have hated you, Paul, for nearly a century. Whenever I took a moment from regulating the life of this planet to think about it, I would curse you. In the spring as I shifted my consciousness toward the poles and allowed a part of myself to dream, my nightmares were of you. They actually upset the ecology somewhat, here and there. I have waited, and now you are here. I see nothing to redeem you. I shall use you as you used me—to your destruction. Come to me!"
He feels a force enter into his body. His muscles twitch. He is drawn up to his knees. Held in that position for long moments, then he beholds her as she also rises, drawing a soaking leg from out of the crevice where it had been held. He had heard the running water. She had somehow melted the ice. . . .
She smiles and raises her pasty hands. Multitudes of dark filaments extend from her freed leg down into the crevice.
"Come!" she repeats.
"Please . . ." he says.
She shakes her head. "Once you were so ardent. I cannot understand you."
"If you're going to kill me then kill me, damn it! But don't—"
Her features begin to flow. Her hands darken and grow firm. In moments she stands before him looking as she did a century ago.
"Glenda!" He rises to his feet.
"Yes. Come now."
He takes a step forward. Another.
Shortly, he holds her in his arms, leans to kiss her smiling face.
"You forgive me . . ." he says.
Her face collapses as he kisses her. Corpselike, flaccid, and pale once more, it is pressed against his own.
"No!"
He attempts to draw back, but her embrace is inhumanly strong.
"Now is not the time to stop," she says.
"Bitch! Let me go! I hate you!"
"I know that, Paul. Hate is the only thing we have in common."
"... Always hated you," he continues, still struggling. "You always were a bitch!"
Then he feels the cold lines of control enter his body again.
"The greater my pleasure then," she replies, as his hands drift forward to open her parka.

ALL OF THE ABOVE. Dorothy struggles down the icy slope, her sled parked beside Paul's. The winds lash at her, driving crystals of ice like microbullets against her struggling form. Overhead, the clouds have closed again. A curtain of white is drifting slowly in her direction.
"It waited for him," comes Aldon's voice, above the screech of the wind.
"Yes. Is this going to be a bad one?"
"A lot depends on the winds. You should get to shelter soon, though."
"I see a cave. I wonder whether that's the one Paul was looking for?"
"If I had to guess I'd say yes. But right now it doesn't matter. Get there."
When she finally reaches the entrance she is trembling. Several paces within she leans her back against the icy wall, panting. Then the wind changes direction and reaches her. She retreats farther into the cave.
She hears a voice: "Please . . . don't."
"Paul?" she calls.
There is no reply. She hurries.
She puts out a hand and saves herself from falling as she comes into the chamber. There she beholds Paul in necrophiliac embrace with his captor.
"Paul! What is it?" she cries.
"Get out!" he says. "Hurry!"
Glenda's lips form the words. "What devotion. Rather, let her stay, if you would live."
Paul feels her clasp loosen slightly.
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"You may have your life if you will take me away—in her body. Be with me as before."
It is Aldon's voice that answers "No!" in reply. "You can't have her, Gaia!"
"Call me Glenda. I know you, Andrew Aldon. Many times have I listened to your broadcasts. Occasionally have I struggled against you when our projects were at odds. What is this woman to you?"
"She is under my protection."
"That means nothing. I am stronger here. Do you love her?"
"Perhaps I do. Or could."
"Fascinating. My nemesis of all these years, with the analog of a human heart within your circuits. But the decision is Paul's. Give her to me if you would live."
The cold rushes into his limbs. His life seems to contract to the center of his being. His consciousness begins to fade.
"Take her," he whispers.
"I forbid it!" rings Aldon's voice.
"You have shown me again what kind of man you are," Glenda hisses, "my enemy. Scorn and undying hatred are all I will ever have for you. Yet you shall live."
"I will destroy you," Aldon calls out, "if you do this thing!"
"What a battle that would be!" Glenda replies. "But I've no quarrel with you here. Nor will I grant you one with me. Receive my judgment."
Paul begins to scream. Abruptly this ceases. Glenda releases him, and he turns to stare at Dorothy. He steps in her direction.
"Don't—don't do it, Paul. Please."
"I am—not Paul," he replies, his voice deeper, "and I would never hurt you. . . ."
"Go now," says Glenda. "The weather will turn again, in your favor."
"I don't understand," Dorothy says, staring at the man before her.
"It is not necessary that you do," says Glenda. "Leave this planet quickly."
Paul's screaming commences once again, this time emerging from Dorothy's bracelet.
"I will trouble you for that bauble you wear, however. Something about it appeals to me."

FROZEN LEOPARD. He has tried on numerous occasions to relocate the cave, with his eyes in the sky and his robots and flyers, but the topography of the place was radically altered by a severe icequake, and he has met with no success. Periodically he bombards the general area. He also sends thermite cubes melting their ways down through the ice and the permafrost, but this has had no discernible effect.
This is the worst winter in the history of Balfrost. The winds howl constantly and waves of snow come on like surf. The glaciers have set speed records in their advance upon Playpoint. But he has held his own against them, with electricity, lasers, and chemicals. His supplies are virtually inexhaustible now, drawn from the planet itself, produced in his underground factories. He has also designed and is manufacturing more sophisticated weapons. Occasionally he hears her laughter over the missing communicator. "Bitch!" he broadcasts then. "Bastard!" comes the reply. He sends another missile into the mountains. A sheet of ice falls upon his city. It will be a long winter.
Andrew Aldon and Dorothy are gone. He has taken up painting, and she writes poetry now. They live in a warm place.
Sometimes Paul laughs over the broadcast band when he scores a victory. "Bastard!" comes the immediate response. "Bitch!" he answers, chuckling. He is never bored, however, or nervous. In fact, let it be.
When spring comes the goddess will dream of this conflict while Paul turns his attention to his more immediate duties. But he will be planning and remembering, also. His life has a purpose to it now. And if anything, he is more efficient than Aldon. But the pods will bloom and burst despite his herbicides and fungicides. They will mutate just sufficiently to render the poisons innocuous.
"Bastard," she will mutter sleepily.
"Bitch," he will answer softly.
The night may have a thousand eyes and the day but one. The heart, often, is better blind to its own workings, and I would sing of arms and the man and the wrath of the goddess, not the torment of love unsatisfied, or satisfied, in the frozen garden of our frozen world. And that, leopard, is all.