Stanley, fast asleep, dreamed of a place where the ocean was pale yellow, where he was sitting in the middle of a drifting rowboat, searching the surrounding sea, seeking a thing of the utmost significance, whose identity he had—if only temporarily—forgotten.
Then he saw something out there, far away—a pair of black circles, unequal in size, bobbing in the yellow waves. Bending his back, Stanley drove the oars into the water, forcing the frail craft forward, dashing across the surging waves. Strangely, as he approached, the circles failed to assume a more positive identity, remaining shadowy, ambiguous—carefully obscured debris floating upon the pale water. But he was nearly there.
Something stank.
Pausing, Stanley cautiously sniffed the air. Bending nearly in half, he clutched the big pot of his belly, gagging, retching. The odor was dreadful, as thick as sulfur, as bitter as garlic.
He couldn’t understand; this wasn’t fair.
Never before had such a thing risen to desecrate the ritual of his dream. Bending his back, he drove the boat savagely in a wide circle, seeking the source of the odor. His eyes burned. Tears leaked down. He could barely breathe. At last, gazing down, he spotted something in the water. He stopped. It was a living creature, moving faintly, just beneath the surface.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he dived. His head pierced the high surface of the sea. His fingers closed around something very soft. Shutting his eyes against the salt water, struggling to contain his breath, he squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. After a time, he did not even have to think about it. A single moment more, and . . .
The dream faded.
Shouting in anguish, Stanley leaped to his feet. The yellow ocean was gone, replaced by a blank metallic floor. Suddenly, standing motionlessly, Stanley realized his hands were full.
He looked down. His hands enclosed the thick, soft neck of a three-legged lopsided beast. The creature had tufts of bright-red hair growing in the most unexpected places, and bare pink skin everywhere else. Three huge eyes bulged in the center of a square head. Whatever it was, the thing was dead. And Stanley had killed it.
He heard a noise. Tottering in a circle, he struggled to turn.
Behind, standing beside a gray wall, staring straight at him, were a dozen creatures belonging to the same race as the thing he had just killed. Deliberately, with subdued defiance, he let the dead beast slip from his hands. Tentatively, he risked a smile. The creatures stood mutely frozen, regarding him coldly. Pointing to himself, Stanley said, “Friend.” There was no response.
“If that’s the way you want it,” he said. Lifting his fists, adjusting his elbows, he prepared to defend his vulnerable middle.
In sharp clicking tones, the creatures began speaking among themselves. Stanley lowered his hands and tried to appear relaxed. He hummed a light ditty, something he had picked up somewhere in his endless wanderings. One of the creatures waved a hand, pointing at Stanley, then spoke excitedly to the group. Once more, Stanley prepared to fight. He tensed his knees and tried to do the same with his slack belly muscles. He shuffled his feet in a vague imitation of grace. Two of the creatures turned to watch. One attempted to duplicate his motions but fell in a heap to the floor. Stanley skidded to a halt. Clearly, some decision was being formed.
Finally, one stepped forward, approaching Stanley, who chose to hold his ground, elbows protecting his kidneys, fists clenched like steel hammers. The creature was slightly larger than the others and, alone among them, wore clothing, a bright rainbow sash circling hairless hips. Reaching into the sash, the creature removed a long knife. Stanley gulped as the blade reflected the dull interior light. The sight was enough to send him to his knees. Locking his fists together, he prayed deeply.
The creature ignored him. Instead, with dazzling speed, it knelt beside the carcass of its comrade and cut a neat square hole in the chest. Dropping his hands, Stanley waddled over to where he could observe the operation more closely. “It smelled up my dreams,” he explained. The odor still infected the air, but seemed remote and tepid now. Again the knife flashed. Then, standing, the creature recognized Stanley for the first time, gesturing at him to stand too. In one hand it held a bloody, puffy, pink-and-white mass of tissue.
Stanley glanced at the extended hand. “Ugh,” he said with feeling.
The creature made an impatient motion, as if expecting Stanley to accept an offered gift.
“Get that thing away from me,” Stanley said.
“But you must consume the vessel.” The creature spoke the common tongue with barely a trace of accent.
“You don’t mean eat it?”
“It is known and accepted.”
“But that’s a heart.”
“And spirit,” the creature said reverently. “Many thousands of spirits. Within this organ—alone among a manklin’s particles—the true being resides.”
“So what?” Stanley asked.
“Exactly.” Nodding, the creature flashed an ugly smile. “If the blessed vessel remains unconsumed, then the spirits shall dangle eternally in the void. Because you are the slayer of the living flesh, the vast responsibility of salvation is yours.”
“Mine?”
“It is known and accepted.”
“Well, not by me.”
“You will do it, of course.”
Disgusted by the sight of the heart, Stanley turned his back. Staring at the cold metallic walls, he thought of the vanished yellow sea. With that gone, what else was there? Finally he turned back. “I won’t do it,” he said firmly, spreading his arms. “Kill me instead.”
* * * *
The manklin’s name was Kelwainn. It turned out he was chieftain, high priest, physician, confessor, tribal elder of the flock. Stanley gladly explained the circumstances surrounding the murder, neglecting to detail the content of the dream but dwelling patiently upon the ordeal of the invading stink. Kelwainn refused to express a judgment. Once more he asked, “You will do it, of course?” The heart remained in his outstretched hand.
“Hell, no,” Stanley said, turning his back.
Returning to his comrades—Stanley counted, there were twelve— Kelwainn issued a series of clicks. Immediately the others expanded their huge chests and emitted an awful wailing. Wincing painfully, Stanley covered his ears. Now what was up? He bustled over, shouting at Kelwainn to explain.
“Among us,” Kelwainn shouted, “it is known and accepted that certain denizens of the shadowland—the charma—will now approach. It is their desire to attempt to claim the voided spirit that dangles alone, and our responsibility to protect him until proper consumption can be performed. The wailing of living spirits combats the designs of those whose very life is death. They cannot stand the racket.”
“Me, too,” Stanley said. The wailing was slipping through his hands. Hastily he scurried to inspect the cloistered chamber in which he had found himself. The only exit was a high door at the far end of the room. He pounded his fists frantically against the steel, but, with the wailing, could barely hear himself.
Coming back to Kelwainn, he pointed at the wailers.
“How long is this going to last?”
“The wailing shall continue until the spirit is consumed.” He pointed at the heart, which now rested on the floor.
“That’s blackmail,” Stanley said. “It isn’t even fair. What kind of savage are you?”
“It is our responsibility,” Kelwainn said.
“Oh, feathers,” said Stanley. “You’re a civilized creature. You speak the common tongue. Hasn’t that taught you enough to know?”
“I have learned nothing that conflicts with the ancient faith of my race.”
“Then you ought to listen to me. I used to be a missionary. I could name you a dozen planets where the natives rate me next to God Himself. Stanleyism, it’s called. If anyone knows the whole truth, it’s got to be me.”
Kelwainn attempted to reply, but his words were drowned in a suddenly rising tide of wails. Sighing, Stanley went back to his inspecting. The ship appeared to be a freighter of the type commonly used for intrasystem cargo hops. Strangely, the hold was empty except for a single crate of processed food. He sat down against the wall and lifted his hands from his ears long enough to fill a battered briar pipe with a thick milky substance. He found a match in the pocket of his trousers. The odor of the smoke was strong enough to drive away the last of the stink. He gripped the pipe stem between his teeth. He held his ears again. The wailing grew louder and louder, until the vibrations seemed to rattle his bones. The pipe provided scant relaxation. It was a weird, uncomfortable feeling. Finally he had to stand.
Kelwainn, joining the other twelve, had added his wails to theirs. Putting a finger to his lips, Stanley drew Kelwainn aside to a relatively quiet pocket of the hold.
“Okay,” he said. “But”—gesturing back toward the heart—”I’ve got to demand a fork.”
In the center of Kelwainn’s square face, the triangle of red eyes flashed triumphantly. Wordlessly he shoved a hand into his sash and, with a flourish, removed two thin sticks.
“Good God,” said Stanley, accepting the gift. “Chopsticks,” he murmured, bemused. He approached the heart. Around him, the room fell obediently silent.
* * * *
While he ate—Kelwainn had kindly lent a knife—Stanley attempted to justify his presence aboard the ship. Since he could not exactly recollect boarding the craft, the attempt proved a flat failure. Kelwainn loomed dangerously near, as though feeling a personal responsibility to ensure that every last particle of the heart was consumed.
“Back there,” Stanley said, pointing at the floor, “I ran into the usual bloody hell.” He sighed. “What did you say was the name of the place?”
“Manklin.”
“Ah, your home world. Mine is Earth. It’s been ages, ages since I’ve last seen those green, dazzling hills.” He managed a bite. But gagged. Standing, clutching his throat, he roared for water. Kelwainn fetched a pint flask. The water was foul, but Stanley gulped. “I never made it out of the spaceport,” he said, dropping back to his haunches.
Kelwainn nodded.
Stanley raised another bite toward his lips. Swallowing hastily, he felt the old familiar rage welling up. “Who do they think they are? There are places in the galaxy where my name is mentioned in the same breath with Christ and Muhammad. Yet, around here, they call me a criminal. As soon as my notorious face is spotted on a planet, they tell me to go away. I imagine—being a religious figure yourself— that you can sympathize.” He peered down at the half-eaten heart, then raised both hands, weaving the fingers into a single solid knot. He shook the great fist beneath Kelwainn’s jaw. “It’s like this. The martyr ... the saint. Entwined. Merged. Fused. And there’s no way of splitting”—his hands flew apart—”the two.”
Kelwainn nodded.
“The trouble with me,” Stanley confided between bites, “is that I’ve seen the truth. I’ve seen more worlds and people than any man’s mind ought to be able to comprehend. I suppose you ought to seem weird to me, but compared to some of the races I’ve known—and not just known, I mean lived, slept, prayed with—you are no more alien than my own left hand.” Deep in his belly, the heart lay. He seemed to feel it pulsating down there. Quickly he swallowed a gulp of brackish water.
“What was it you saw?” Kelwainn asked politely, his eyes firmly fixed to the remaining fragments of the heart.
Stanley ate again. “Nothing.”
“I thought you mentioned—”
“Nothing!” Quickly Stanley calmed himself. “Can I explain how it happened? I cannot. I traveled and traveled, stealing rides like this, sometimes paying my way, occasionally even crewing. I got farther and farther out, till for years, I met no other human being. It was a lonely time. At last, unexpectedly, I reached the very edge of the universe. I looked straight out, too. There was nothing—just emptiness ... the void ... a black hole. So I looked back. And there was nothing there, either. It was the same. I had seen the truth—as blunt and ugly as can be. Sure, I was scared. I ran all the way back here, trying to forget. Alas, who could? When you know, really know, that there’s nothing”—his voice dropped to a confidential whisper—”then you’re utterly free. You’ve got to do damn well what you want. I fell into an enormous mess of trouble. Being free got me hated, loathed, spat upon. On numerous planets my name was substituted for traditional curses. I violated their laws and customs, laughed in the face of their taboos. They drove me away, banished me to a half-life of eternal wandering. But I don’t care.” The final bite lay upon the floor. With a great speed denying his bulk, Stanley gripped the piece between the sticks and rammed it down his throat. “Free,” he said, sighing. He wiped his lips, belched. “Where did you say we were bound?”
“To the Jakla,” Kelwainn said reverently.
Smiling, Stanley stood and waved a finger at the moist spot on the floor. “I didn’t have to do that. I could have given my word, and then, when your pals shut up, raised a ruckus and fetched the crew. So, in return for that favor, I expect you people to remember the name. Late at night, when you’re crouched around the blazing tribal campfires, when you’re gazing up at the twinkling mysteries of the nighttime sky, moaning or praying or doing whatever it is you do when confronting the vast unknown, I want you to recollect the only free man you’ve ever met.” He hastened toward the door, calling back, “Stanley!”
He banged his fists against rigid steel. “Okay, okay! Open up! You’ve got a stowaway! Come on!” But the door failed to budge. Puzzled, Stanley dropped his hands and listened.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder. Kelwainn stood, holding a silver key to the door and grinned. The key fit snugly. The door popped open. Stanley stepped through into the crew quarters.
The room was empty. “Ready or not, here I come,” he called, stepping ahead into the control room.
And that was empty too.
They were hiding. Bastards. Bending down, he peeked beneath chairs, cots, stove, toilet, sink, control panel. There was nobody there. “How the hell?” he murmured. Kelwainn had followed him forward. Glancing back, Stanley saw a half-dozen three-eyed faces peering past the edge of the open door. He faced the control panel directly, hands on hips. It had been smashed. Wires, levers, dials, glass, chrome—everything lay everywhere. He approached the broken frame of the pilot’s chair and leaned forward, gazing down into the transparent rectangle of the observation window. The topmost layer of glass had been shattered. Through an intricate pattern of exploding lines, he saw the blackness of space. Here and there, like twinkling bugs captured in an enormous web, the stars shone through. One was huge, bright, a giant.
“The Jakla,” said Kelwainn, leaning over and stroking the screen softly.
Stanley gasped, then stood upright, hands trembling. “You’re joking.”
Kelwainn shook his head.
“That’s where we’re going? To that star?”
“It is the resting place.”
“In this ship? At this speed? Why, it’ll take”—he made rapid computations in his head—”forever.”
“But it is known,” Kelwainn said, “and accepted.”
“You idiots!” Stanley cried.
* * * *
Stanley sat slumped against the wall, munching on a handful of processed grain, while across from him, huddled in an indistinguishable mass, the manklins slept. Stanley was smoking, too. The thick fumes provided a measure of relief, but already his supply had dwindled dangerously low.
Finishing his dinner, he resumed toying with the shells and seed. He had picked them up someplace in his wanderings and would never travel without them. With dazzling speed he moved the shells across the slick floor. Stopping, he arranged them in a neat line. There were three shells—identical from the outside—painted midnight black. He tapped one with a fingernail, causing it to perform a neat half-flip. Beneath—worn smooth by years of traveling—the seed lay bluntly revealed. Stanley clapped his hands, smiling. “I win,” he said.
“Excuse me.”
Stanley glanced up. Standing above was a manklin—not Kelwainn, but, with a trio of tiny breasts, a female.
“You speak the common tongue,” Stanley said.
“We are required to learn.”
Stanley pushed the shells and seed aside. “Care to sit?”
The manklin dropped down. “My name is Darjinn,” she said. “There is a thing I wish to ask you. It is a thing I heard you tell Kelwainn. About the edge—the edge of the universe.”
“Oh, that,” said Stanley.
“Yes. I am ... I find it difficult to conceive. It is a thing far surpassing what we know—even the most advanced.”
“Is that you?”
“I am young but”—proudly—”a very rapid learner. My spirit consumption is very great.”
“But you won’t make it. That star is light-years away.”
“In olden times, before your race came to our world with ships capable of sailing the sky, we placed our dead beneath the stars and tried to drive their spirits up and away. This way is much better.”
“You’ll die.”
“Perhaps. But the ship-”
“And more expensive.” Stanley calculated rapidly. The cost of purchasing the ship, paying the crew, the automatic equipment. “Tell me, Darjinn, do you people carry money—federation credits?” He reached into his pocket and revealed a single worn tin coin.
Darjinn nodded. “We work in the port. Kelwainn carries them in his sash.”
“The money belongs to him?”
“It is as much mine as his,” Darjinn said, plainly offended. “We share all things.”
Stanley took a moment to consider the possibilities. Abruptly, deciding, he tucked the coin away and then motioned with the other hand, indicating the shells and seed. “Do you enjoy games?”
“But-”
“Here—I’ll demonstrate.” Keeping the seed separate, he arranged the shells in a line. “Now, here,” he said, placing the seed beneath the center shell, “this is our trick. You’ve got to watch closely. Don’t blink an eye.” With his usual dazzling speed, Stanley rearranged the shells. “Well?”
Darjinn tapped the center shell. “There.”
“You think the seed is there?”
“It is.”
“We’ll see.” Stanley flipped the shell. Nothing. “You lose,” he said.
“Then it is this one,” Darjinn said, pointing to the shell on the right.
“And, again, you lose.” Stanley flipped the final shell, revealing the seed.
“But how. . . ?”
“All in the hand.” Stanley gave his fingers a shake. “Quicker than the eye, two eyes, even three. But my idea is, we bet.”
“Bet?”
“Wager, gamble. You can use a few of your community coins. I’ll stake my”—he removed the tin coin—”fortune. Three-to-one odds.”
“But,” Darjinn said, watching the shells as they formed a line, “what about the edge?”
“Oh, that.” Bowing his head, Stanley searched the floor for his missing pipe. “A lie. A means of attracting attention. A silly, childish foible of mine. I do apologize. Nothing more.”
“A lie?”
“Completely. Choose.”
* * * *
Sitting in a corner of the cargo hold, back facing the room, Stanley diligently counted his coins, arranging each batch of ten into a neat pile. From behind, he heard a dreadful thump, and turning, observed, stretched out on the floor, the unmoving body of a manklin. Kelwainn stood about his fallen companion, gazing remotely ahead, muttering in a series of quick, high-pitched clicks and growls. The others —including Darjinn—were fast asleep.
Stanley counted the last of the coins, then stuck the lot in a pocket and crossed over. “That was damn quick,” he said, when Kelwainn ceased clicking. He pointed down. “Heart attack? Brain fever?”
“No, this.” Kelwainn opened a fist, revealing several small pink capsules. “A simple poison.”
“You killed him, huh?”
Kelwainn bent down. Quick as a flash, the knife glinted in his hand. Stanley observed the slicing. Within a moment the dead heart lay cradled in Kelwainn’s hands.
“You intend to eat all of it?” Stanley asked.
Kelwainn placed the heart on the floor and carefully, using the sharp tip of the knife, began to divide the organ into equal portions. “We will share. There are many thousands of spirits here. Sharing is the best method.”
“It is known,” Stanley intoned. “It is accepted.”
“It is.”
“But what about me?”
“You will not be forced. The slayer of the living flesh is required to consume those spirits he has set free. But this being died by his own hand.”
Stanley shook his head. “Afraid not. I want my share.” He pointed at the heart as if calling upon it to testify in his behalf. “I’m here—right?—I didn’t ask to be here, but it’s too late now. I want to do my part.”
“And why is that?”
“I’m hungry. Tired of eating processed food. Besides, the food’ll last longer this way. Do I need a reason?”
Kelwainn paused to consider. “You may eat only the heart,” he warned. “Among us, it is taboo to consume the flesh. The body will be ejected into space.”
“I’m no cannibal. Except for heart.”
“And you are willing to bear the burden of the spirits?”
“I’ve done all right so far. Sure. I’m brimming over with spirits. In fact, right this minute I can feel them hopping and popping inside me.
“If it is your desire . . .” Kelwainn stood and went to wake the others. His gaze never wholly left Stanley. On the floor, the heart lay neatly severed into equal portions. Stanley counted, ensuring that there were thirteen. Then he grinned. “Hey . . . forget the chopsticks.” He picked up one portion of the heart in his fingertips. “I can manage this little bit.”
* * * *
Darjinn pointed at the center shell. “That one,” she said with certainty.
Stanley cut off another slice of the heart. Chewing, he flipped the indicated shell. “Too bad,” he murmured through a full mouth.
Darjinn passed over the final three coins that lay in front of her. “That is all,” she said with finality.
“You’re not quitting?”
“You have taken all my coins,” Darjinn, too, was eating a portion of the heart, but more slowly, painstakingly, as though each additional bite was an event of vast consequence.
Stanley waved vaguely toward the corner where the manklins slept. “Go borrow someone else’s share. Kelwainn won’t need the money. Not till we reach the Jakla.”
“But he has no share. The coins belonged to all of us in common. I used them all.”
“I see,” said Stanley. Continuing to chew, he considered. Looking down at the trio of shells, the exposed seed, he envisioned the long hours that would follow, devoid of even this bare amusement, the hollow sense of victory. Oh, hell, he thought, even though it went against his principles. “Here.” He passed a stack of ten coins to Darjinn. “Consider these a loan.”
“I thank you,” she said stiffly.
Stanley inserted the seed beneath a shell and began the ritual of rearrangement. “Do you happen to remember what you wanted to know the first time we talked?”
“I remember,” Darjinn said, refusing to allow her gaze to move from the shells. When the rearrangement was complete, she looked up and tapped the center shell. “There.”
Stanley flipped the shell. “Well. How about that?” He passed three coins to Darjinn, enlarging her meager fortune. “I lied to you. About the edge. I have seen it.”
“I don’t understand. I thought we agreed—”
“I spoke metaphorically. The human race—that’s me—started out on a planet called Earth. What I saw was the end of that beginning, and, it seems to me, that is the real subjective end of everything. I drifted in my youth, wandering the romantic spacelanes, the same as you heard me tell Kelwainn. I had a fine time, meeting a certain woman, falling in love, producing a child. We settled on a colonial world and built a cabin. On an island. A few miles offshore from the main colony. This world was a young planet, still in the process of forming, in search of a real identity, totally devoid of intelligent life. The island was small enough that I could hike around it between breakfast and lunch. It teemed with wild game, huge dumb beasts possessed of the richest, most divine meat and juice. One would step up and eat out of your hand, and then, when you released the gas, fall over—kerplop—with a big smile. The regular colonists wanted to form a government and petition the federation for recognition. They said I had to attend the meeting, so I rowed to the mainland. The meeting was long and dull, and somewhere in the middle, the building twitched. I slept. In the morning, when I rowed back to the island, it wasn’t there. Three days I searched those wild, raging waters. Okay, I finally had to admit. That twitch had been an earthquake. The little island had sunk. With it—naturally—my woman, my child, my teeming game. I left the planet as soon as the annual freighter came. Soon enough, I reached Earth. A freak of fate had brought me there—a curious twitch in the lifeline. A blasted, burned, ugly, desolate world. I established camp. That first night, in spite of a roaring fire, a pack of filthy, hairy, two-legged beasts attacked me. Squatting down, I unloosed a dreadful barrage. The bastards fell but wouldn’t stop. I killed them all. Chowtime, I thought, with some satisfaction, but when I went to skin the first, I realized that the eyes were too damn familiar. Humans. People. Men. The sons of the fathers of my race. I got out of there, too. I had seen enough: the end—where we’re all going. We started out beasts, and we’re ending the same damn way. I kept drifting. Choose.”
“That one,” Darjinn said, pointing to a shell.
Stanley flipped. “Right again.” He shook his head in astonishment and passed the requisite coins. “I learned one thing: never believe in nothing. That’s how you get—like me—to be free.”
“But I know differently,” Darjinn said. She struck her chest with two fists. “Here, I know.”
Stanley leaned back. “You feel the spirits?”
“I do.”
“Then,” Stanley asked, “how come I don’t?”
“You don’t?”
“Not a damn thing. And I’ve consumed an entire heart. Remember? I’m afraid old Kelwainn is fooling you.”
“But I can feel . . .”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t lie to you. All I ask is that you think about it.” He shook his head. “But let’s play.”
* * * *
Stanley was reaching out to turn the indicated shell when someone screamed. He glanced up hastily. In the corner where the manklins slept, one had come awake. The creature stood on tiptoe, face painfully contorted by some tremendous emotion, fists clenched and waving violently in the air.
“Oh, no!” Darjinn cried, bolting upright. “He has fallen!”
But the enraged manklin had found a knife and dived into the sleeping mass of his companions. Rhythmically, the blade went up and down. Blood flowed everywhere. At last Darjinn reached the scene of the slaughter and grabbed the manklin by the throat, hauling him back. He let out a howl of frustration, struggled, then broke free, holding the knife high, prepared to strike at Darjinn. Stanley, who had come running, reached high and slapped the knife away. He scooped it up, and in a single fluid motion, leaped, driving the knife cleanly into the manklin’s throat.
By this time the others had come awake. Kelwainn danced to his feet and began clicking angrily at Darjinn. Stanley waited patiently for the excitement to die down, but when it didn’t, he shouted, “Shut up!”
The manklins, unaccustomed to such blunt commands, fell immediately silent.
“What’s the problem here?” Stanley said. “If it’s all these loose spirits, then don’t worry. The slayer of the living flesh must consume the freed spirits. It is known and—”
“But-” said Kelwainn.
“I killed him,” Stanley said. “He killed them. So that makes me responsible for everybody.”
“But you cannot bear that great burden,” Darjinn said.
Stanley came over and patted her head. “Sure, I can. It won’t mean a thing to me. Remember what I told you.” Then he faced Kelwainn, pointing down. “Cut,” he commanded.
“But-” Kelwainn said.
“It is known,” said Stanley. “It is accepted. So”—he giggled brightly—”cut.”
* * * *
Fat and bloated, Stanley lay against the wall, burping gently. Glancing up at last, he noticed Darjinn standing above. “I’m king of the spirits,” Stanley told her.
“You feel them?” she asked hopefully.
“Nope.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a thing.” He added, “Absolutely.”
“I . . .” Darjinn began, but stopped.
“Go on,” Stanley said, sitting up, suddenly alert
“I can’t feel them anymore either.”
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“I . . . Yes.”
“Not even this much?” Stanley made a sign with his fingers—a bare, faint inch.
Darjinn shook her head weakly.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely.”
“Good golly!” Stanley clapped his hands and smiled hugely. He bounded to his feet and spread his arms. Rushing forward, he hugged Darjinn in his wide embrace and drew her face down to his. He kissed her lips, then pushed her back. Genuine tears formed in his eyes and spilled down flushed cheeks. “I’m so glad,” he said. “It’s been so long. I haven’t had a convert since . . . since . . .” Unable to remember, he kissed Darjinn again, patted her head. “Oh, I don’t know when.” He fell to his knees and gladly remained there, weeping without restraint.
* * * *
Alone in the control room, Stanley sat with his back braced against the bare wire skeleton of the pilot’s seat. Gazing through the shattered rectangle of the observation window, he observed below the twinkling sphere of the Jakla. The sight both moved and confused him. Although he knew the Jakla could be only minutely closer than before, the white star seemed strangely more vast, larger, but it wasn’t so much a matter of size as one of power and dominance. The Jakla had assumed a significance, a mastery, a place in the sky it had not previously possessed. The phenomenon frankly puzzled Stanley. He thought he ought to try to work it out. There was a solution, he was convinced, yet it had so far eluded him.
“Stanley?”
“Huh?” He turned, the chair swiveling with him. “Oh . . . you.”
“I must speak with you,” Kelwainn said.
Stanley smiled, folding his hands on his belly. “Still mad about how I stole your dinner?”
“I must speak to you of Darjinn. I must ask—implore—that you not see her again.”
“Are you kidding?” Stanley waved a hand, indicating the ship. “In here?”
“You must refuse to speak to her.”
“Uh-uh.” Stanley staggered to his feet, intending to deprive Kelwainn of the advantage of height, but the meal he had so recently consumed made him feel weak and dizzy. His belly felt as if it were filled with bricks, not spirits. He burped and fell back in the chair. “Darjinn’s my friend,” he managed.
“A lie,” said Kelwainn.
“Hey,” Stanley said. “Watch that.”
“A liar,” Kelwainn continued fervently. “I knew the moment you awoke. You are a thief, Stanley, a murderer, a mongrel. But most of all, you are a liar. You have caused Darjinn to doubt. She told me what you have asserted. I was forced to listen to your lies. It is common knowledge among your people that the Earth was destroyed ages past. You have no more seen that world than I have visited the Jakla.”
“I spoke metaphorically,” Stanley said.
“You spoke as a liar. Devil.”
“Angel.” Stanley touched his heart. “Angel of truth.”
“Prince of lies.”
“Me?” Stanley said, managing a tired laugh. At last, tottering freely, he reached his feet. “The devil has horns, a barbed tail, hooves. He is not a fat, talkative, doped-up old man like me . . . like Stanley.”
“The devil may appear in whatever fancy he desires.”
“I said that was enough. I said shut up.” Turning, Stanley fell against the shattered remains of the control panel, barely supporting himself.
“She believes you, Stanley. She cannot feel the spirits anymore. You have taken her sacred existence and made it meaningless. You have-”
“Oh, come off it,” Stanley murmured. “I saved her.”
“You will learn,” Kelwainn said.
For a long moment after Kelwainn left, Stanley remained where he was. At last he fell, landing in the pilot’s seat, tilting forward. Beneath him, the expansive vista of the observation window lay revealed. “Oh, no,” he whispered, drawing in his breath. “Oh, God.” It was the white star—the Jakla.
It had grown again.
* * * *
Stanley forced the last bit of bread between his swollen lis and chewed furiously. The bread was stale, penetrated by mold, as hard as stone—the fragment of some half-consumed sandwich left behind by a neglectful crew member. The processed food was gone. Hardly enough water remained for a half-dozen swallows each.
Choking on the bread, Stanley struggled to force the dry crust down his throat. At last, succeeding, he could face his companions. Darjinn was gazing down at the floor, her face hidden from view. Kelwainn smiled meagerly, then also looked away. Between the three of them, the shells and seed were waiting.
“I don’t like this,” Stanley said. “I think we ought to wait. A ship might find us. We might all be saved.”
“Do we want to be saved?” Darjinn asked.
Kelwainn nodded slowly in agreement and pointed at the shells. “Explain your game to me.”
“But this isn’t the way to handle it,” Stanley said. “We’re talking about one of us dying. This way is just silly.”
“Explain.”
“But-”
“Tell him,” Darjinn said.
“Oh, all right.” Stanley carefully told Kelwainn how the shell game was played.
“And the one drawing the seed,” Darjinn said, “will be the winner. He must swallow the capsule. If neither of us draws, then Stanley will be declared the winner. Are we agreed?”
“No,” Stanley said.
“Yes,” Kelwainn said.
“The capsule, please,” said Darjinn.
Kelwainn removed one of the pale-pink capsules from his sash and laid it on the floor beside the shells. Darjinn signaled Stanley to begin.
“I won’t,” he said. “But—all right—I will.” He planted the seed beneath the center shell and commenced the pattern of arrangement. At first his hands moved slowly, hesitantly, then faster, gaining speed and momentum as he juggled the shells with graceful proficiency, shifting them beneath and between his hands. He soon forgot everything except this art that he knew so well. Like miniature planets, the shells streaked across the floor, crisscrossing paths, darting chaotically, like particles in a universe gone haywire.
He stopped, fixing the shells in a neat line.
“Kelwainn?”
“Yes.” Kelwainn reached boldly out, clearly intending to tap the center shell.
Darjinn grabbed his hand.
“No . . . me.” She reached for the same shell.
“I am the elder,” Kelwainn said, preventing her in turn.
“It can make no difference,” she said. “I am the one who no longer believes, so it is proper that I should lead.”
“In that case,” Kelwainn said, “Stanley should precede us both.”
“Stanley is an alien. It must be me.”
“Don’t be silly,” Stanley broke in. “Kelwainn is right. Let him go first.”
“No . . . me.” Again Darjinn reached out.
Stanley slapped her hand aside. “Kelwainn,” he said.
“Me.” Desperately Darjinn tried to reach the shell. Stanley could see no other choice. Turning his hand into a tight fist, he cracked her solidly on the jaw. Her eyes dropped shut. She toppled forward. Stanley caught her arms, and standing, laid her carefully down.
“She’ll be all right,” he told Kelwainn. “But I couldn’t-”
“I know.”
“So I guess you’ll have to go first.” Stanley hurried back to his place. “If we need her, we can wake her.”
“Of course,” said Kelwainn.
Swearing, Stanley dug deeply with the knife, trying to free the heart from the gentle embrace of the dead creature’s chest. But it wouldn’t come loose. Pausing, he wiped his face with the back of a bloody hand, and glancing around, noticed that Darjinn was awake and looking at him.
“Kelwainn,” he informed her, “lost.”
She nodded. “You mean he won?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you to wait? You were the one who had to go ahead. Stubborn, senseless, stupid . . .”
He waited for her reply, and when it failed to come, returned to his work. The knife caught against a rib and refused to budge. Angrily Stanley tried to force it loose, but lost his grip instead, and the knife flew out of the open chest, bounding across the floor. “Damn it.” He went to retrieve the tool. When he returned, he stopped in front of Darjinn.
“You’re going to have to help me.”
“I cannot.” But she did stand, going to Kelwainn’s body, kneeling down beside it. Quickly she removed the rainbow sash from around his hips and tied it around her own.
“Look, you have to help me,” Stanley said. “I can’t do this all alone.”
“Then don’t.”
“And not eat the heart?”
“Who cares?”
“He does,” Stanley said, pointing down.
“But he’s dead.”
“Well, yes.” Stanley crouched down, inserting the knife. “But we do have to eat something. Spirits or no spirits, food is food.”
“I cannot.”
“Oh, stop saying that.” He laughed derisively, pausing in his work. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen back. You’re not afraid of Kelwainn’s spirit?”
“It is not a matter of fear,” she said, maintaining the same tone she had assumed since waking. “I do not choose to violate the ancient law unless it is necessary.”
“What law?” Stanley held the bloody knife under her eyes. “Doesn’t the law command you to share?”
“Not him. The law forbids that.”
“Because he was your chief?”
“No, because he was my father.”
* * * *
“I was wrong,” Stanley said, the newly transformed heart beating firmly inside him. He held Darjinn tightly by the shoulders so that she could not avoid him. “I can feel them now. I can. When I told you I couldn’t, it was a lie.”
Easily she slipped away from him. “Liar,” she said. In her hands she held the shells and seed. Carefully she placed them on the floor, then inserted the seed. Her motions were slow, tentative, lacking in grace.
Stanley kicked the shells across the room. “Forget that . . . listen to me.” He opened his shirt, revealing a bald chest. “I can feel them in here. I can hear them. They want out. Isn’t that right? They want to reach the resting place. I’m not lying. You have to believe me.”
Darjinn stood and went to fetch the scattered shells.
Stanley chased after her. “I can,” he said. “I swear it. I really can. I can feel the Jakla and . . . and . . .”
“I don’t care,” Darjinn said. Bending down, she retrieved the seed. “I can feel nothing. And that is what matters to me.”
* * * *
When the chorus of voices deep inside him grew too loud to be easily ignored, Stanley tossed the half-eaten chunk of raw meat aside and sprang to his feet. He screamed.
But no one heard. On the opposite side of the hold, Darjinn was sound asleep. Asleep? Why wasn’t she dead? It had been weeks since she had eaten a bite. The water was long since gone.
But hunger and thirst were things Stanley could bear, and the voices were not. It wasn’t the tiny, shrill, piping one that bothered him; it was that one big loud one. Kelwainn, of course. Having his revenge. It wasn’t fair. Stanley was the one who didn’t even believe. Why wouldn’t they let him alone? Why should he have to suffer so much?
Again he screamed.
Calming himself, he whispered, “No, no, no.” It was all up there, in his head—pure imagination. Laughing fitfully he stumbled forward, his legs barely agreeing to carry him. He wanted to walk one way, but there was something else, a spirit, that wanted to go the other way, while another one said turn left, and yet another said turn right, and one more—the biggest of all, Kelwainn—said stop.
Stanley tripped and fell in a graceless heap.
Lying there, hands covering his ears, he fought them down, chased them back to the place where they belonged—the heart. At last, firmly in control, he crawled forward on his belly, giggling in triumph. The door to the forward compartment was open, so he crawled through, pausing at the edge of the control room to gather his strength before making the final plunge. He tried to stand and walk, but his legs refused to budge, lying uselessly below like pounds of dead meat. It wasn’t lack of food and water; it was the spirits. They weren’t even going to allow him this much. He had sinned, refusing to recognize their existence. They were there—he knew that now—and they had won.
“Please,” he murmured. “Let me up. Let me see.”
He tottered to his feet. Dimly, far ahead, he spied the battered frame of the pilot’s chair. Here we go, he thought, lunging, tripping, falling, twisting his body at the last possible moment so that it landed upright in the chair.
Then he let his head fall forward.
His forehead struck the observation window. Bouncing. When the motion ceased, he opened his eyes, straining to see what lay ahead.
Through the intricate design of exploding lines, he saw the stars shining within the void. He stared, as if unable to accept the testimony of his own eyes, and in a blink, the stars vanished. Then he could see only one: the white star—the Jakla. He shivered. It was so close. If he wanted, he was certain, he could simply reach out and touch that star. Deep inside, the spirits also heard. They demanded to be set free. He laughed, pitching forward, then fell, tumbling out, passing effortlessly through myriad layers of impenetrable glass and plastic. Unhindered, as free as a particle suddenly cut loose from the laws of the physical universe, Stanley rushed through the vastness of interstellar space. All sensations of direction and motion, mass and velocity, fled from him. All he knew was the Jakla, the resting place, which approached, drawing closer and closer, until he was sure he felt its dry, scorching heat. The light burned his eyes. He drove onward, stretching his hands in front of him, awaiting that final answering touch, the merger, the cosmic fusion, the end.
Then he was falling back. He screamed, wanting to remain, but he was falling. Darkness swallowed him. Then he glimpsed the pattern of the stars. The Jakla dwindled to a bare pinpoint of light. He fell up . . . and out. The dull silence of the control room embraced him. For a moment he could only sit and wonder. Then his head fell. His forehead struck the observation window. He stayed there.
* * * *
On silent, naked feet, Stanley entered the cargo hold. Darjinn knelt on the floor. Seeing her, Stanley could not contain himself. He rushed forward, shouting, “I felt it! I saw it! It’s real!”
Slowly Darjinn raised her eyes, meeting his. “Is it?” she asked coldly. Shifting slightly, she revealed the shells and seed. “Let’s play.”
Stanley dropped down beside her, observing carefully as her hands moved tentatively, inserting the seed, arranging the shells. Suddenly, breaking off, she laughed.
“What is it?” he asked, lifting his gaze.
“You lied to me.”
“I never denied it,” he said. “Lying is . . . I’ve always lied.”
“Me too,” she said.
“No!”
“So now we’re even.” Reaching across, she patted his head tenderly. “Now, choose.”
He did, expecting that, this time, he couldn’t lose.
* * * *
Gordon Eklund writes:
If the golden age of science fiction, as Peter Graham once remarked, is twelve, then I was especially fortunate in having my own chronological years coincide exactly with that green, rich, fertile moment in literary history: when Gordon Eklund turned twelve, in 1957, he was reading his first science-fiction story, Clifford Simak’s remarkable “Desertion.” That same year also saw, powerfully, the launching of man’s first artificial satellite, and I recall how the science-fiction magazines of the time made a great fuss over this event. Their pages were soon inundated with faintly scientific articles and learned discussions of the dawning of the Space Age. Infinite speculations ran like mountain brooks: when will man (presumably Russian) first set foot on the Moon? How about 1970? 1975? 2010?
Hell, no, I thought at the time, why not, in fact, July 1969?
That gift of prophecy soon deserted me. So, similarly, did most of the faintly scientific articles involved: these left me cold. Who could be riled by gray visions of the dawning of a secular Space Age, when that age, in all its beatific glory, already existed fullborn in the holy (fictional) pages of these very same science-fiction magazines? Not me, at twelve, for one.
But that was 1957, and let’s see what we’ve lost since. I’ve already alluded to my private gift of prophecy, and innocence always goes, but what about those scientific speculations? Gone, I’ll tell you, gone. And most of the magazines, too, though that’s more a matter of publishing trends than cosmic connections.
The Space Age, too. The one that had been dawning, that is. I can no more guess what may happen tomorrow than you or Chairman Mao, but it’s entirely feasible that man’s moment in space may be finished for our lifetimes, and do you know what that leaves? Well, the fiction, for one thing, the stories. That’s right where it began, in the pages of the remaining magazines, in this book and many others, in my work and that of the other men and women of the field. It began there; it may end there. I think that’s grand.
Science fiction is often accused (by those who do not like it) of being unnecessarily esoteric. You can’t understand the stuff, we are told, unless you’ve already read a fat pile of it. SF writers use devices not readily comprehensible to an outside reader. Take faster-than-light travel, hyperspace, fourth and fifth dimensions.
Well, um, I say. The truth is that anything worth knowing demands effort, and the science fiction understandable only to science-fiction readers is almost invariably the very best kind written. What we’ve done (we, the people of science fiction—writers, readers, editors, fans) is create our own mutual space age. To hell with that other dying thing. Ours is there for anyone to visit: it exists, like concrete. Though often raped by trivialities and triteness, this age endures, perseveres, goes on. We live in a remarkable time that permits us the existence of a future as firm and real as our so-called present. Men have often chosen to live in better (or worser) pasts, but only with science fiction has the range of human temporal consciousness been extended beyond tomorrow. If this story here gives you a taste or tickle of that, it will have succeeded way beyond its author’s sometimes modest expectations. Thank you.