the darkness to come

 

In a situation where facts are scarce, faith counts as much as logic. But when the faithful reach the wrong conclusion, they still cling to it stubbornly!


ROBERT B. MARCUS, Jr.

 

Now there was no doubt in Jans Deriae's mind. He had checked the calculations over a hundred times and always the figures led him to the same conclusion.

He wheezed slightly, clambered to his feet and hobbled across the starkly furnished room, coming to a stop before the gleaming metal sink. What would Dorins think if she could see him now? He was just a gnarled old Rangin who had out­lived his health, dependent upon pills to prod his heart to beat and his lungs to inhale.

Deriae smiled and thought of his wife. She always said that he was the most obstinate person in the world. Too obstinate to die, Jans thought, as he shook a tiny blue pellet from an unlabeled bottle, put it in his mouth and chased it down with a glass of si­jine. The pills were illegal, of course.

The Council had decreed that it was unnatural for any Rangin to be kept alive by artificial means. When death beckoned one must always answer the summons. Deriae spat in fury, then relaxed. They—the members of the Council—did not know. They did not know he had friends, a chemist and a biologist, who had joined together to create his pills of life. It gave him a great deal of satisfaction to know that he had succeeded in de­ceiving the Council for fifteen myuths. Many times the Council had ignored a proposal of his; now he was ignoring one of its laws. But that was not the main reason he had to continue to take these pills. To stop would be to condemn the entire planet to death. His death would be the death sentence for Rangi.

He sighed heavily. His work was almost finished. He had only to con­vince the Council . . . then his death would no longer matter.

Deriae gazed through the polished glass of his window at the heavens far above. The clouds, a mottled bronze, clung to the bowl of the sky as if painted there.

It would not be easy, he thought. Few on the Council had ever seen the stars, and perhaps none had seen that particular star that gave warmth and light to the planet Rangi. Deriae had glimpsed it only twice in the two hundred thirty-three myuths of his life. But the last sighting had been only two myuths ago and it had been enough to convince him that the sun was smaller now than it had been the first time he had seen it. His mea­surements confirmed this. Taken to­gether with the data of the Masters, Desgrave and Evere, only one con­clusion was possible.

Deriae shivered, knowing however that his chill was completely psycho­logical. His quarters were still warm, even though the temperature of Rangi had dropped ten units since Desgrave's time and fifteen since Ev­ere's.

He shook his head and lowered his gaze to the surface outside his win­dow. Narrow gravel paths wound through clumps of wiry purplish-green vegetation which resembled the feathers on Deriae's body. In the distance the muddy waters of the Ta­grew River rippled with the turbu­lence of a storm, and even farther away a row of hills wallowed on the horizon, intermittently visible as the mists thickened and waned.

A good day for a walk, Deriae re­flected, as a young couple, arms en­twined, strolled into view on one of the paths. It seemed like only a day ago that he and Dorins had walked the same path. But Dorins was dead and had been for thirty myuths. Much had happened in those thirty myuths. He no longer ruled the sci­entific world. His theories were no longer popular. Jans knew why. One person was responsible for his fall. Aviam Winsz.

Deriae watched the couple and envied the boy's full wings, but what was the use of having them if one was too weak and too old to fly? Like most male Rangins over a hundred myuths his wings were clipped. It was odd. Why didn't Rangin females have wings capable of flight? Theirs were small and weak from birth. The case of the dyyplres provided a par­allel example. The dyyplres were rare, living only in one tiny region of the planet, but they were much like the Rangins, though not intelligent and possessing no hands which could be used to grip things easily. But they, too, exhibited the phenomena of a flying male and a non-flying fe­male. In their case it was because the male did all the hunting and was the only one that needed to fly; the fe­male was generally pregnant, in part the result of an extremely long gesta­tion period, similar to that of Rangin females.

Was there a connection between the two species? The difference was that his people lived primarily be­neath the ground and had domes­ticated animals to eat; there was no need to hunt, and, therefore, no need to fly. It was an interesting com­parison, though, and one worth con­siderable study. He wondered if he would ever have the necessary time. There was so much to discover; so little time.

He turned away from the window, a wave of depression washing through him. It was always the same. Looking out his narrow window started him thinking, and thinking usually led to depression. And yet he would not trade his surface apart­ment for one mired deep below the ground. Once all Rangins had been surface dwellers, but now few could afford to have an individual apart­ment built above ground. His wealth had advantages. How much the oth­ers were missing! The beauty and raw force of nature often elicited strange emotions that he savored for myuths afterwards. No, they could keep their artificial caves; he was content where he was.

He smiled again, sadly this time. Their subterranean apartments would probably keep them warm for many myuths after the sun had shrunk to the size of all the other stars, but it would do them little good. All food was raised on the sur­face. And it would die. And so would they.

The moment Jans Deriae brought his two companions to the zastrif garden he realized his mistake. It was too serene here. The tiny golden flowers danced by the millions in the wind. It was almost impossible for even Deriae to believe that his world was in danger. How could he con­vince the Councilmen?

As Jans listened to his friend, Liez Sjane, he tried to steer the other two Rangins out of the zastrif garden and towards the pits at the bottom of the hill.

"I've always supported you before, Jans," Sjane was saying.

Deriae nodded.

"I've helped procure the money you needed for your research. And when you wanted the Council to revoke the law forbidding any kind of life-sustaining drugs, I was your voice." He paused and rubbed two hands together. "But this . . . this I can't do. You're growing old, Jans. And your mind is aging, too." Sjane carefully avoided Deriae's gaze as he spoke and his red crest rippled as all Rangins' did when they were uneasy.

The third person made no com­ment but Jans could see that, though he was trying to be objective, he sided with Sjane. He was a head taller than Deriae and almost as tall as Liez. Deriae had not wanted to in­vite him but as President of the Council, Qoiuy Asderw would be useful as a Witness in case Sjane proved difficult to handle.

"Are you trying to suggest that I am approaching senility?" Jans asked mildly. He had to put his friend on the defensive.

"No, but I think you must have reached the wrong conclusion," Sjane said.

"From the data that I have gath­ered," Deriae said icily, "there is only one conclusion."

"I don't see that at all."

Deriae struggled to contain his anger. "I have devoted most of my life to the study of this problem."

Sjane looked at him with surprise.

"Yes, almost my entire life! I have memorized every observation and measurement that Evere recorded, and read every one of Desgrave's theories and writings about the stars and our universe."

"And you believe Desgrave? He spent the last thirty myuths of his life in an asylum," Sjane remarked.

"Desgrave was a genius and Rangins do not treat a genius kindly. We do not readily accept the truth." Even the Council recognized his work, Deriae added to himself. Desgrave was proclaimed a Master, an honor which was given to one scien­tist every hundred myuths. Jans knew that he would never join Evere and Desgrave in receiving that honor, however. They had lived in different times and Rangi had been ruled by Councils which were not as anti-science as the present one. Be­sides, Aviam Winsz had too much influence in the Council. He alone would be an obstacle too great to overcome.

"You're different, I suppose?" President Asderw said in a dry tone. "You always recognize the truth in­stantly, don't you?"

"When it reaches out and plucks my feathers, I do."

Sjane hesitated, flexed his wings. They were unclipped, Jans noticed, though Liez was beyond the age of flight. Sjane was slow to admit his age.

By now their path had brought them to the foot of the hill, where the pits lay. Deriae sat down on a nearby stone bench and the others followed his example.

"O.K.," Sjane continued, "let's as­sume you are right. What can we do about it?"

"I am not sure. All I know is what I have told you. Our planet presently receives most of its heat from a nearby star which Desgrave simply called the sun. Now my calculations show that Rangi has not always or­bited this star. In fact, Rangi's present orbit is not a closed one at all, but rather a hyperbola." He paused, to magnify the effect of his words. "Our planet does not belong to this sun! Once Rangi circled a sun which is now inconceivably distant. Sometime in our past Rangi tra­versed that great chasm of emptiness. I do not understand how it was done. Our civilization has not yet de­veloped the technology needed to transport an entire planet across that immense distance. But someone pos­sessed the knowledge; some other civilization. It could only have been the people we call the gods."

"What?" Sjane exclaimed.

"I, therefore, believe that the key must be in the Chamber of the Gods."

"Are you suggesting that we open the Chamber of the Gods?!"

"Yes."

"But the gods—"

"They were not gods; merely members of an advanced race from some other world. They did not mean for us to revere, or worship, them; they came only as friends to help us."

"Stars? Other worlds? I'm sorry, but I can't believe any of it."

"But Desgrave—"

"I know what Desgrave hypothe­sized—I've read his theories. He en­visioned a universe cluttered with thousands, perhaps millions of stars, many of which might be surrounded by planets such as Rangi."

Deriae was surprised by his friend's knowledge and he must have let his feelings show, for Sjane added:

"I've even read some of your theo­ries, Jans, though I don't understand the mathematics in many of them."

"Then you must see that I am right."

"I see nothing of the kind. Face the facts, Jans, Rangi is our universe, our entire universe. Your theories and Desgrave's theories are beautiful intellectual exercises and are very in­teresting, but they still are wrong." Sjane was too dogmatic; Deriae knew he still had a chance. When­ever Liez was unsure of himself, he became dogmatic.

"But there have been hundreds of authenticated sightings of stars," Jans retorted.

"I don't deny that—there is little doubt that they exist. However, I am sure that they are nothing more than atmospheric phenomena. You have said many times that we know so little about our upper atmosphere."

"True, but what is beyond our at­mosphere?" Deriae snapped. "What is beyond those clouds?"

"Who cares? I don't see that it really matters."

"I care. And you should," Deriae said.

"You're just being stubborn, Jans."

"Call it what you like. The future of our race depends on my stubborn­ness."

Sjane shook his head and flashed a hard smile. "I've had enough of this. It's difficult for me to believe that a man of your intelligence can be so obstinate." He stood up.

"Then you will not voluntarily bring my proposal before the Coun­cil?" Deriae asked.

"I would be a fool to do so."

"All I ask is to be allowed to ex­amine the Chamber of the Gods."

"That is impossible," Asderw in­terjected. "It is forbidden. No one has ever entered it."

"The lives of our children are at stake." Your children, Deriae thought. He had often regretted not having any children. Now he no longer did.

"Are you finished?" Sjane asked coldly.

Deriae scowled and walked over to the glass wall that separated the three Rangins from the pits. He stared down at the thousands of mhinreqs teeming in the artificial chasms below. According to legend the gods had build these pits, just as they had built the five underground cities which all Rangins lived in.

Jans studied the mhinreqs. They were members of the only group of animals which could not fly, chiefly because they were too big. However, many of the bones necessary for wings were present just below the shoulders, even though the mhinreqs had no use for them. They were strictly ground animals and the main source of meat for the Rangins.

As he stood there an idea ap­proached him. It had to do with the dyyplres—and the mhinreqs. It was such a farfetched idea, though. But the facts were there. The mhinreqs had primitive wing bones. Was it possible that the dyyplres were an­cestors of the mhinreqs? Or more plausible yet, perhaps they de­scended from an ancestor common to both, yet different from both. And perhaps the Rangins descended from the same animal, gradually changing over the many thousands of myuths. Was it possible that the Rangins, like the mhinreqs, would one day lose the ability to fly altogether? It was a strange idea, but utterly fascinating. It also contradicted the current the­ory that Rangin had been created fif­teen hundred myuths ago, since the earliest known records, which dated back one thousand four hundred fifty myuths, described mhinreqs and dyyplres as being identical to their present forms. And neither had the Rangins changed.

 

"Look at them!" Deriae exclaimed suddenly, waving a hand at the mhinreqs. "If the temperature drops another fifteen units, they will die. Twenty units and most of the plants will die. Thirty and only the very hardiest plants, which are completely unedible, will survive. On the origi­nal jump across space, the animals must have been kept below ground level. There are immense grassy areas in each of the five underground cities. These areas are now parks, but once could have been grazing fields for the mhinreqs and cropland for vegetables. But the planet was inter­nally heated then. Now it was not—at least not enough. There could be no second jump."

"That's only your conjecture," Sjane said.

"It is a scientific fact," Deriae re­plied.

"But we are not scientists," As­derw said. "You do not expect us to understand such matters. Isn't that what you meant to say?"

Deriae did not answer immedi­ately. "I am a member of the Natu­ral Academy and as such I have the right to demand a Council hearing once every five myuths," he said.

"Did you bring me here to de­mand that I place your proposal on the agenda of the Council?" Sjane asked with a spark of bitterness in his eyes.

"Yes. As a member, you can do it much faster than I can. You can thank one of your inane laws for compelling me to ask this of you," Deriae remarked. He paused. "The President is my Witness."

Asderw made no comment but nodded slowly.

"It will destroy my career," Sjane said.

"I am not asking you to help de­fend my position," Deriae responded.

"That doesn't matter. You don't understand—"

"I am truly sorry, Liez. You are well respected in the Council and you are on the agenda committee. It is within your power to schedule a hearing for me far sooner than any­one else could. I must have that hearing. I thought you would help me willingly. It seems that I must force you. I would rather not do it but—"

 

The spark in Sjane's eyes flared into fire. "As you wish—I have no choice." He glanced over at Asderw, and Deriae knew he had been wise to bring the President along. If he had not, Sjane might never have ad­mitted that he had been approached about the proposal. His career was worth too much to him.

"I will bring your proposal before the agenda committee tomorrow. You will have your hearing within five days." He turned and left, leav­ing ripples of anger behind him, rip­ples that bounced off the pit walls and spread until a thin veil of anger covered everything in the vicinity, including Jans Deriae. So close, Jans thought. Success had not been far away. Liez had almost agreed to his desire willingly. It was not that Liez believed his dire predictions, but be­cause of the friendship between them, a friendship which stretched back eighty myuths to the time when, on a hunch, Jans had lent Sjane the money necessary to fi­nance his bid for a Council seat.

The President looked at him. "An hour ago you had a friend; now you have an enemy. I can't blame Liez for his actions. Was it worth it?"

"He is no enemy; he is merely angry," Jans said, but his thoughts were along the same lines.

He watched President Asderw walk towards the Pit Sector III lift. Was it actually worth the sacrifice to save an ungrateful world? He had little time left in this life; he would not survive to harvest any benefits.

He could not blame Liez com­pletely. After all, he had placed Liez in the position of having to make an extremely difficult choice, but then, he had done that to Sjane before, and Liez had always sided with him. But time changed everyone. Liez had become at last like most of the other Councilmen; too concerned with his own future, his own career, to view new ideas objectively. The demon of ambition had seized control of Sjane's mind.

Deriae smiled once again, a little sadly. He was hardly one to be thinking like this. He was one person to whom nothing mattered but his cold equations. He had devoted his life to writing numbers in a book and now he might not even live to see if his most momentous calcu­lation was correct. He was certain that it was—he could find no mis­takes or even hints of mistakes—but even so, there were times when he wondered what relation a few num­bers could have with the reality of the universe.

He gazed up at the sky and thought for an instant that it was black and emblazoned with stars. But it was only an old man's weary imagination deceiving him.

He turned and started the long trek uphill to his quarters, knowing that Rangi continued to sweep out­ward into the deep interstellar night.

 

The Council Hall was only half filled when Deriae made his way down the aisle to the speaker's po­dium. Irritation gnawed at his stom­ach. Today, would determine the fate of the entire planet and its myr­iad of life forms, and yet only a hun­dred Councilmen had bothered to come to the hearing.

Deriae took the platform and looked at the audience. The small at­tendance would work against him. All of his enemies appeared to be present. They would vote to defeat any proposal that he made. That would be fifteen votes on the nega­tive side. He would have to convince almost five-eights of the remaining eighty-five if his proposal were to pass. It would be difficult.

"There have been times," he be­gan, "when all Rangins had to cast aside their prejudices and unite in a common cause. The hundred myuths of heat forced us to do this. Only by pooling all our resources were we able to insure the survival of our race.

"And now we must do the same thing—for we are about to undergo an infinite period of extreme cold unless we take action. Once more the efforts of all may be needed to en­able us to survive. Let us remember that there was much opposition to the Dedre Plan before the myuths of heat, but what was important was that it was finally accepted. We owe our lives to the foresight of our an­cestors. And now we have the chance to insure the safety of our children. The choice is yours.

"I have been observing the weather on our world and studying the records of my predecessors for most of my life," he continued. "Four hundred myuths ago, at the height of the period of great heat the average temperature was 110 units. In Evere's time it was 75; in Desgrave's it was 70. Now it has dropped to 60. In another hundred myuths it will be less than 40."

Someone rose in the back of the chamber. Deriae could not tell who it was. "What proof do you have that the present trend will continue?"

"My presentation today is made with the purpose of convincing you of this fact. My evidence is such that a great deal of preparation in physics is necessary to understand much of it, but I will try—"

"You will try to explain it in lan­guage we morons can comprehend," the Councilman interrupted in a hos­tile voice.

"No, I merely meant—"

"Don't bother to explain. We know your opinion of the Council."

"I am only saying that the Coun­cil's field of expertise is different than mine. It is not possible for you to fully understand every aspect of every problem which you are com­pelled to discuss." But Jans knew he had not healed all the wounds he had made. They had sensed his bit­terness towards them and nothing could absolve that. He clenched his teeth. He was not a diplomat.

"There is much evidence,' Ale went on. "When I was twelve I was fortunate to catch a glimpse of some­thing few people have ever wit­nessed: our sun. The clouds parted for just a moment and from that time on I have been a scientist, though I did not immediately turn to physics. Myuths later I saw the sun again and it had changed; it was considerably smaller and fainter. I know because I measured its disk and compared the data with the fa­mous measurements of Desgrave and Evere. Our sun is about half the size it was in Evere's time!"

"I don't see how the size of this so-called sun of ours affects the tem­perature," someone interjected.

"Perhaps I gave the wrong impres­sion. The sun is not smaller; it merely appears smaller. This implies that we are farther away from it. Since we owe most of the warmth of our planet to the radiation of our sun, the farther away it is the colder Rangi will become."

"Are you saying that Rangi's heat is not produced internally?"

"Yes, or at least not all of it. It is true that for a long while we de­pended upon the internal heat that the people we call the gods stored in Rangi somehow, but that heat is al­most gone, and most of our warmth now comes from the sun."

 

A young Rangin stood up, flexing his wings as he rose. Jans recognized him as a member of a group infor­mally known as the Venerators. At least twenty Council members openly admitted that they adhered to the doctrines of the group, and Deriae suspected that as many as thirty percent of the Council be­longed to the secret sect. The Vener­ators believed that after the gods created the world fifteen hundred myuths ago, they retreated beyond the golden door of the Chamber of the Gods, from which they could eternally watch over the affairs of Rangi. Deriae knew that to the most devout of them, attempting to open the Chamber would be an act of desecration.

And after the Venerators finished with him, the Destructionists would attack. And then the most powerful foe of all—Aviam Winsz, the Coun­cil's Science Adviser.

"Now you are claiming that this object which gives us light and heat is one of those stars which Desgrave hypothesized," the young Rangin said.

"I consider it a fact."

"And these stars fill the sky?"

"Yes."

"Then why have I never seen one?"

"You have not looked."

"Well, where should I look?"

"You answered that yourself,"

Deriae said, extending a hand to­wards the ceiling. "At the sky."

"And when should I look?"

"Every minute that you can. And then maybe you will see a star or two in your lifetime. Maybe—if the clouds part."

"And yet you've seen the stars a dozen times and the sun twice?"

"I see that you have read at least one of my papers. Yes, I have, but I have been lucky."

"And from those few observations you have concluded that Rangi is in danger?"

"It is evidence, with Desgrave's hypothesis to build upon."

"I, of course, am familiar with that hypothesis, but why don't you ex­plain it? Other members of this Council may not have wasted their time reading it."

Deriae felt rage begin to bubble within him. "Desgrave . . . theorized that the universe consists of an unfathomable number of radiative bodies he called stars, separated from each other by immense dis­tances. Around some of these stars circle one or more planets which are capable of supporting life."

"And what keeps these planets circling their stars? Giant ropes?"

Several Councilmen laughed softly.

"Have you ever read my theory of mass attraction?"

"No."

"I believe that every body in the universe attracts every other body, the strength of that attraction vary­ing with the inverse of the square of the distance."

"You mean that I'm attracting you?"

"Yes," Deriae said slowly, choos­ing his words with care. "But be­cause Rangi is so much larger than we are, the attraction between us is overwhelmed by the attraction Rangi has for each of us individ­ually. Of course, Rangi is in turn temporarily under the influence of the sun. However, my calculations show that our planet is quickly mov­ing away from the sun and will soon escape its grip. It is a problem in simple geometry. Rangi's orbit is a hyperbolic one, an open orbit. In other words it is the shape of one branch of an ordinary hyperbola. Now the hundred myuths of great heat occurred when our planet passed through the vertex of its orbit and was closest to the focus, the sun. Now we are moving away from the sun. And we will never return—un­less we change Rangi's orbit.

"At one time the internal heat of our planet was great enough to en­able us to survive without a sun, but that is no longer true. The heat stored by the gods is almost gone. The time will come when the rays of the sun become too weak to heat Rangi effectively. Already they are very feeble. When this happens Rangi will freeze. And we will even­tually die."

"I see."

Deriae sensed a growing hostility in the Council.

 

 

"And you believe this?" the young Rangin queried.

"It is not difficult to believe the truth."

"Don't you see any contradictions between your theory and what we know about the history of the uni­verse?"

"Our planet," Deriae said.

"This planet is the universe."

"That is your theory. Any contradictions between your theory and mine should be examined closely, studying the evidence supporting each position." Deriae felt a flicker of the hope he had possessed before entering the Council room. Surely the Council would recognize the truth!

The Venerator nodded. "I will state my position, since the Council has heard yours."

Deriae started to protest but the President cut him off. "Councilman Mhuiae is speaking."

"As everyone knows, our written records go back one thousand four hundred fifty myuths, though it is true that we have found a few un­dated papers which appear to be older. There is evidently only a slight difference in age, however. The dated ones tell us of an era of dark­ness prior to that age. Some of the undated ones mention the gods, the Chamber of the Gods, and the de­cree that the Chamber should never be opened.

"It is obvious to any thinking per­son that the 'Era of Darkness' refers to the time before the creation of Rangi and the various creatures on it. We do not know the exact date of the creation but it could not have oc­curred much earlier than one thou­sand four hundred fifty myuths ago."

There was general agreement in the chamber as Mhuiae finished his argument.

"I agree with your facts," Deriae said, "but disagree with your con­clusions." He gazed at Mhuiae. "Isn't it true that the records you claim are undated actually contain undeciphered arrangements of nu­merals which possibly could be dates?"

"The numerals make no sense. They are far too large."

"What you mean is that they are too large to support your theory. If a fact doesn't agree with your theory, you discard it and ignore it.

"I believe that Rangi is far older than fifteen hundred myuths. I be­lieve that these numerals are dates, but that they were measured from a point in time before even the Era of Darkness you speak about."

"And what was before the Era of Darkness?" Mhuiae sneered.

"A period of light similar to the present one. Let me explain. My cal­culations show that Rangi has been in orbit around this sun for about fif­teen hundred myuths. There is no clear point of demarcation but the figure I have given is quite sufficient for our purposes. It is identical to the one you give for the age of Rangi.

"In any event, the conclusion is obvious: Rangi came from another sun. How or why I do not know, but we are here and that is evidence enough. The so-called 'Era of Dark­ness' was simply the period when we were between the stars." Deriae paused and President Asderw said:

"Perhaps it would now be appro­priate to hear from the Council's Science Adviser."

There was a hiss of ascent from the Council as Aviam Winsz strode to the podium on the speaker's plat­form. Now Deriae was behind the right podium, Winsz behind the left, with the President in his chair be­tween them.

Jans looked out towards the au­dience and the pounding of his heart became like a funeral drum, heavy and mournful. Once he and Winsz had been friends. They had met while in training at the Academy of Verniae. Deriae had been trained as a chemist but after twenty myuths of work in the field his interest waned and he returned to the academy to study physics, which Winsz was also studying. Several of his discoveries in chemistry had provided him with a life-long wealth: he synthesized three new materials for clothing, all of which were strong and nonflam­mable. He also was the first to make an orange dye that did not fade or run. But his mind kept returning to that flash of blue-white he had seen in the sky when he was twelve. And, therefore, when he noticed that competition had opened for a scholar­ship to study under Brensz, a disciple of Desgrave, Deriae returned to Ver­niae and eventually was the chosen student. The only problem was that Winsz had spent his entire life pre­paring for the same opportunity and he never forgave Deriae for depriv­ing him of his right. It was especially difficult for Winsz to accept since Deriae had finished training twenty myuths earlier, was so much older, and indeed was not even a physicist. Since that time Winsz had been a bitter foe of the theories of Desgrave, as well as those which Deriae introduced.

"Adviser Winsz," the President said. "What is your opinion of Mr. Deriae's hypothesis?"

Winsz smiled coldly at Deriae. "As everyone in this Council room is aware, I do not adhere to all the be­liefs of the Venerators. I for one, doubt that the gods ever existed. What evidence do we have? I believe that they are a myth and not a real­ity. On the other hand, I do accept Councilman Mhuiae's argument that Rangi's creation took place approxi­mately fifteen hundred myuths ago. I see no reason to think otherwise. Mr. Deriae's contention that Rangi has existed for longer than that has no basis in fact. However, I do have a question to ask of him before I pro­ceed any further."

"Go ahead," the President re­sponded.

"First of all, assuming that you are right in your belief that Rangi is in danger, what do you propose to do about it?"

"Before I answer that question, I would prefer to present additional evidence to support my theory."

"You have had sufficient time to do that," Winsz said.

"I have had the time, but not the opportunity. Is a few more breaths so much to ask?"

"Please answer the question," Winsz said.

"But I am not ready." To answer the question now would rule out any chance he had of presenting addi­tional evidence.

"Answer the question," the Presi­dent ordered.

Someone rose quickly in the back, but Deriae did not recognize him un­til he heard the voice. "I object to the ruling," Sjane said. "It is not Mr. Deriae's fault that he has not com­pleted the presentation of his case. Others have taken up his time. I can­not agree with his theory, but I do believe we owe a person of Mr. Deriae's stature more of a chance to persuade us than we have given him."

"You were not recognized by the President, Councilman Sjane," As­derw chastised. "Please refrain from any further outbursts of this kind." He turned towards Deriae, who was numb with surprise from Sjane's at­tempt to help. "Answer the question, Mr. Deriae," Asderw said.

You already know the answer, Deriae thought. You know that if I tell the answer now that I have no hope at all.

Yet he heard his voice begin to speak. "I have no actual plan, only a suggestion. If Rangi is to be saved, its velocity of recession from the sun must be reduced. I do not know how to accomplish this but such a task should not be too difficult for a planet with the capability of crossing interstellar distances. There must exist a means by which we can do this, and there is only one reasonable place to search for this means."

"And that is?"

Deriae hesitated. His hope was gone now, but he still could not bring himself to speak.

"Mr. Deriae?" Winsz insisted.

"The Chamber of the Gods," Deriae said at length.

And suddenly the Council room was no longer quiet. But the noise was not very loud, only a buzz of voices, and Deriae knew that the Council did not realize what he wanted to do. Only three people were aware of the implications of his suggestion: Asderw, Sjane . . . and Winsz.

"The Chamber of the Gods?" Winsz exclaimed. "Surely you don't suggest that we open it?"

"Why not?" Now he almost had to yell to make himself heard above the roar. "I feel that it should never have been sealed; surely those we call the gods did not intend for this to hap­pen. Somewhere in the ages when Rangi was between stars, fear over­came our people and we sealed it."

"Who are you to say what the gods meant for us to do, or not do?"

Deriae paused, then plunged ahead. "I do not believe that the gods were gods at all. They were merely members of a race that was far more advanced than we were or are, a race from another world whirl­ing around another sun. They con­quered space and their technology made them seem like gods to us. We were in trouble and they helped us because we were unable to help our­selves. But someday, if we survive the present crisis, the miracles that they performed will be within the realm of our technology. Of course by then, who is to say what heights their civilization might have reached. They may still seem like gods to us."

"That is absurd," Winsz retorted.

"It is heresy!" Mhuiae shouted.

"No," Deriae said slowly. "It is merely the truth, and that is the worst thing of all, isn't it?"

The Council growled in response, a low rumbling which swept through the chamber, a wave of unspoken anger.

Jans waited. The rumbling was too loud for his suddenly weary voice to overcome.

Could he have presented his hy­pothesis better? He had made several mistakes, but after all, he was a physicist, not a Councilman: his job was to discover, not persuade. And a great deal of persuasion was needed in this case. Tradition was a force as strong as the attractive force which bound the universe together. Tradi­tion could not be overcome easily. His case might be more readily be­lieved if Rangi lacked its white fur of clouds. Then the Council could seethe stars at night and the sun at day and perhaps they would believe him. Perhaps.

But as he thought, he remembered that once tradition had been broken. Somehow the gods had persuaded his ancestors to forsake their own sun and adopt this new one. The gods had persuaded the Rangins to leave their surface homes and flee beneath the ground, into Rangi's warm and welcoming bowels. But the gods had seemed all-powerful, and he was not. That was the differ­ence.

The roar in the room went on, and so did his thoughts.

The journey was long. First the clouds turned dark, then they ceased to exist at all. If anyone had strayed above the ground he could have seen the stars in their unfiltered glory. Perhaps someone did. But if so, he left no records, and no one believed in the stars now. At least, very few did.

Eventually the clouds came again. Perhaps they thawed out from the frozen masses on the surface, or per­haps some machine of the gods created them to preserve the integ­rity of the planet. But once more they existed and began to glow. Heat started to frolic on the surface once more, dancing to the nearly forgot­ten melody of light. The music cre­scendoed, building to a roar of sullen fire five hundred myuths ago. And now the symphony was in its final movement, playing out its last few chords. And when the music ended, so would all life on the surface of Rangi. And later, when the cold pen­etrated beneath the surface and the food vanished, so also would all life. Rangi was not prepared to make such a journey again.

The rumble in the Council room was fading, replaced by an expectant silence. They were waiting. Deriae, though, said nothing. At length, Winsz gathered his strength and challenged Jans again.

"Mr. Deriae, what you have sug­gested amounts to destroying one of the traditions our society is built upon. It seems to me that we should consider your proposal for some time. You've hit us with a great deal that is new. You can't expect us to be convinced so soon." He turned to face the Council. "I suggest that we form a Permanent Committee to study Mr. Deriae's proposal." There was a murmur of assent again.

Jans swallowed twice. He had been anticipating this, but even so, it was almost more that he could bear. A Permanent Committee would mean the end of his proposal for all practical purposes. Once formed, such a committee rarely met more than once every ten myuths to con­sider new data. If a member died, his oldest son inherited the position. It was a method of keeping a Council seat within a single family. With a great deal of luck it would be only a hundred myuths before action could be taken. And by then Jans realized that he would be dead and his argument lost, because there was no one else who would carry it on.

"There is not enough time," Deriae said suddenly to the Council. "It may be too late already." His pa­tience was gone.

"That is only your opinion," Winsz replied.

"I am the expert in the matter."

"We cannot rely on your opinion alone."

"It will be too late!" Jans pleaded. "We will take a vote."

"Let me explain why—"

"You had your chance," Winsz said coldly. He turned to the Presi­dent. "I ask you to refrain our guest from further argument."

"But I am not finished!" Jans im­plored. "There is a great deal that re­mains to be said."

"You can explain it at the first meeting of the Permanent Committee," Winsz said with a slight smirk on his face.

"I must—"

"Mr. Deriae," the President threatened, "if you do not restrain yourself you will be forced to leave the Council room before the vote."

A smug look crossed Winsz's face.

Deriae glanced around the room. No one that he could see showed an expression which strongly disagreed with the President's warning. But someone was standing in the back of the room. Sjane again.

"I'm ashamed of this Council," Sjane said calmly. "You've let one old man scare you so much that you fear to let him finish his speech."

"You have not been recognized," Asderw snapped.

Sjane ignored him. "One old man, and suddenly you—all of you—are scared out of your feathers. When I came here this afternoon I was con­vinced that Jans Deriae was losing his wits. Now I'm having second thoughts. And it wasn't Deriae who put doubts in my mind. Not at all. It was you—"

"Councilman Sjane!"

"Yes, you cowering Councilmen. Only the truth is capable of driving so much terror into so many hearts. Only the truth. Perhaps he's right af­ter all." Then Sjane turned and swept out the door, leaving the Council stunned.

Jans felt good. It had been myuths since he had felt this good. It was an ephemeral feeling, so quickly gone, but the memory lingered. He was de­feated, but he was no longer alone.

"We will vote now," the President said. One by one the names of the Council members were called. And then the final tally was read. Sixty to twenty-two, sixteen abstentions. It hardly mattered, Deriae thought, with silence in his heart. Silence—and the yawning chasm of despair which threatened to swallow him into its shrouded eternity.

"A Permanent Committee will be set up to investigate the problem, if there is one," the President said, his voice calm now, victorious.

A haze appeared over the cham­ber, but after a moment Jans realized that it was in his own eyes. He shook his head and the chamber un­dulated with the rhythm of his heart. His feet and hands suddenly felt numb and cold. But it was not the coldness caused by a drop in tem­perature; it was a kind of coldness he had never felt before, a coldness that seemed to be nibbling its way up his arms and legs towards the trunk of his body. And then abruptly his mind cleared and he knew what he had to do.

With a hoarse cough he staggered from the room, leaving the Council to pick its Permanent Committee, and down the corridor to the lift. Several people standing in the hallway asked him if he needed help but Deriae pushed them away.

The door to the lift was open, and he went in, pushed the bottom but­ton and let out a breath of relief. He gazed around him with new aware­ness. Everything here—the lift, the city, everything—had probably been built by the gods. How could anyone expect savages thrown into a world of civilization to become instantly civilized?

Then pain chewed at his heart with sword-sharp teeth and he forgot almost everything. He sank to the floor and his head reeled as the inte­rior of the lift twinkled with fiery splashes of light.

The lift jarred to a stop and Deriae concentrated and managed to climb to his feet. A long corridor gaped be­fore him, like the throat of some primeval monster. With trembling feet he hobbled to its end and stared with bleeding eyes at the blank golden door. He pulled a gun from his pocket and fingered its black metal body. He lifted it and aimed. And fired. Twice. The blank plate in the middle of the door fell off, shredded by the bullets. The golden door stared at him with two newly created eyes. Jans pushed and the door swung open.

The room was dark and smelled old. Multi-colored fireflies of light danced on panels around the room. As he stood near the door the dark­ness vanished in a burst of light. The light did not come from the ceiling, or the walls, or anywhere that Deriae could see; it merely existed and filled the room.

On the left wall four pictures moved, each to its own rhythm. Jans stared in wonder. Once, when he was very much younger, he had sug­gested the idea of moving pictures, but everyone shook their heads and called him a fool.

The picture in the top left corner was a star, a star between yellow and orange in color, a star throbbing with life. A fiery halo around it flickered constantly, licking deep into the darkness of space. The second pic­ture also showed a star, evidently the same one—at least the color was the same—but on a smaller scale this time, surrounded by five tiny disks against a background of faint dia­monds. The second disk from the star was circled, and as Deriae watched, the star exploded and flashed out to engulf the five planets. When the star had receded from the space it had invaded, the first three planets were gone.

The bottom left picture showed the surface of a bright verdant cloud-covered world alive with Rangins living in grass-roofed houses. Sud­denly work and play stopped and ev­eryone stared at the sky. From the shroud of whiteness dropped a silver globe, plummeting towards the ground as a Rangin with a broken wing might fall to his death. But just before the globe was to hit, it stopped instantly and hung sus­pended in the air, with no apparent support. Then the aliens came out.

There was little doubt in Jans's mind that he was seeing the origin of the legend of the gods, and he could hardly blame his ancestors for the in­terpretation they gave to the visit of this strange race.

They were bipeds like the Rangins; they had two arms and two legs, but they had no wings—and no feathers either as far as Jans could perceive. Their bodies were covered with a thin metallic-looking uniform and it was impossible to see most of their skin. However, the skin around the face was very pale in one indi­vidual and very dark in another. Whereas the heads of Rangins were long and narrow these people had heads that were more rounded. They walked slowly down a ramp and abruptly the picture began to repeat.

The fourth picture was one of con­struction. Giant chasms appeared in the surface of the world and were slowly filled in with honeycombed cities. After a while this picture also began to repeat.

Deriae focused his attention on the right wall, which also bore pic­ture screens. Immediately he noted a similarity. The top left screen also burned with the glare of a star. How­ever, this star was almost white, with only a faint tinge of blue, and Jans instinctively knew that this star was larger, much larger and much brighter, than the yellow star on the left wall. And though he had seen it only twice in his life, he recognized that brilliant whiteness.

The second picture showed an­other system of planets, with the white sun at the center. Three tiny worlds were visible, and the outermost was circled. There were dot­ted ellipses passing through the two inner planets and then around the star, obviously marking their orbits. The orbit of the outer one, however, was a hyperbola, dipping close to the star at the vertex and then away on both legs until reaching the edge of the map. Part of the dotted hyper­bola blinked regularly—since it in­cluded the vertex Deriae concluded that this was the part traversed.

The last picture showed the room Deriae was in and there was only a blank space where the fourth picture should have been.

But the wall facing the door con­tained the most wondrous picture of all. Millions of diamonds blazed against the velvet background of black. Some were red, some blue, some yellow, and they were flung across space in no discernible pat­tern. Deriae cursed the clouds which had denied him this sight for his en­tire life. There were so many! Even Desgrave had not predicted this many.

Two stars were circled and an­other possessed a square of light around it. The two circled stars were connected by a horizontal line and near the star on the right was a very tiny blinking dot. Only when it flashed was it visible at all.

Deriae stumbled over and sat down in a chair in front of the control panel under the pictures on the right wall. His head throbbed and his veins felt empty. He had little strength. He groped for his pills and felt a moment of panic. Where were they? Then he found them and hast­ily swallowed one.

After sitting for a while the webs in his mind were swept away and suddenly he understood. The eternal cycle of life. Birth and death. Every­thing in the universe had to follow nature's rhythms. There was a great variance in time, but in the end all things had to die—even stars. And sometimes, like animals, stars be­came diseased. Excitement pulsed through him as he pursued this new line of thought.

The star that once brought light and warmth to Rangi had become diseased and with stellar fury threat­ened to destroy the entire planetary system. And except for a race of ben­efactors it would have. They some­how convinced the Rangins that the death of Rangi was inevitable if it re­mained where it was. The pictures on the left wall showed Rangi as it was and as it would have become had it remained in orbit around that sun now so far away. The beautiful tapestry of the universe which hung across the center wall showed both the sun which was left behind and the sun which warmed Rangi now, as well as the path taken between the two. And the sun with the square of light around it? Possibly the far-dis­tant sun which the aliens called home.

In a manner similar to the ones on the left wall, the ones on right wall showed Rangi's present orbit and the new sun around which it orbited. The hyperbolic nature of the orbit was clearly visible and anyone with even an instinct for mathematics could see that Rangi was quickly leaving its sun behind.

Deriae looked closely at the third picture, the view of the control room he was in, and noticed that in the picture the panel in front of him had circles around some of the controls. A small white button had one circle, a large black-handled lever two cir­cles, and so on, up to six. Were these the controls needed to change Rangi's orbit?

He gazed at them. He could fore­see no harm in testing them, as long as he followed the order prescribed. And there was the chance that he could save Rangi, even without the Council's approval.

He punched the button with one circle. The fourth screen flashed on with a blaze of light. It subdivided instantly into four smaller pictures, the top left one contained a message printed in Rangin; the other three were blank.

ON A ROUTINE EXPLOR­ATORY MISSION, WE, WHO COME FROM A FAR DISTANT WORLD CALLED EARTH, FOUND THAT YOUR SUN WAS ABOUT TO EXPLODE. WE TOOK STEPS TO GUARANTEE THE SURVIVAL OF YOUR PLANET, AND WE HOPE THAT BY NOW RANGI IS IN A SAFE ORBIT AROUND ITS NEW SUN. THE FOLLOWING INSTRUC­TIONS WILL INSURE THIS.

1) WHEN RANGI AP­PROACHES ITS NEW SUN, IT IS IMPERATIVE THAT THE VE­LOCITY OF THE PLANET BE DECREASED FOR RANGI TO ACHIEVE A CLOSED ORBIT. IF THIS DOES NOT OCCUR, RANGI WILL NOT ORBIT THE STAR BUT RATHER SWING AROUND IT AND ESCAPE. THIS WOULD MEAN CERTAIN DEATH FOR YOUR PEOPLE. THE COMPUTERS IN THIS ROOM ARE DESIGNED TO UNDERTAKE THIS VELOCITY CHANGE AUTOMATICALLY. HOWEVER, OUR MACHINES ARE NOT INFALLIBLE AND THERE IS A POSSIBILITY THAT ONE OR MORE MAY HAVE MALFUNCTIONED. IN THIS CASE, THE MALFUNCTION MUST BE LOCATED AND THE CHANGE PERFORMED MANU­ALLY.

2) PULL LEVER WITH TWO CIRCLES DOWN APPROXIMATELY HALFWAY. IF LEVER DOES NOT MOVE, DO NOT FORCE IT. THIS MERELY MEANS THAT ALL CIRCUITS ARE IN WORKING ORDER AND YOU MAY IGNORE THE RE­MAINDER OF THIS MESSAGE.

Deriae pulled the lever. It moved easily, confirming what he already knew. Two of the other small screens came alive, one with additional in­structions, the other with mathemati­cal tables which Jans did not under­stand immediately. But he did understand one thing. For all its technological prowess the race which saved Rangi could not build perfect machines. Sometime during the long journey, a malfunction had occurred, and now he—Jans Deriae—had to correct the mistake.

He read the new instructions care­fully. They appeared fairly simple. One of the formulas given seemed to indirectly confirm his theory of mass attraction and he felt a swell of pride.

Footsteps in the hallway shattered his concentration. They became louder and louder and Deriae turned towards the open door. The guard, if it was a guard, had not yet discov­ered the intrusion. Deriae wondered if he should close the door and hope that the bullet holes would not be noticed. No, his only chance was to complete the calculations quickly. He estimated that he had twenty breaths before the guard came upon the open door. He whirled back to the control panel.

But he was wrong. It was a cruel fate which teased him this way, let­ting him approach to within mo­ments of his goal, only to jerk the opportunity away. He needed so little time now.

The guard was running by the time he arrived at the chamber. Fear glazed his eyes and he trembled on the portal, making no move to enter.

"You . . . you must come out of there," he stuttered. He waved his gun at Deriae.

"Come in and take me."

"It is forbidden."

Jans did not bother to refute the guard's logic, and when the guard saw that Jans was not going to come out, he armed the firing plate of his gun. Jans could tell from the faint click that the weapon was not a pow­erful one, but at its present range it would still be lethal.

"Do you think the Council would approve of firing a bullet into this chamber?" Deriae asked calmly.

The guard hesitated, then turned and fled. Deriae instantly was back facing the control panel. The guard had gone for help. That would mean a reprieve, but it would be a short one.

Everything faded from his mind except the instructions on the screen. First he had to locate the malfunc­tion. He pulled the black-handled le­ver on the control panel, the lever which was circled twice in the pic­ture before him. A small red light came on beside the lever, then went off. Deriae glanced up at the fourth screen again.

MALFUNCTION LOCATED. TEMPERATURE SENSORS ON SURFACE INOPERATIVE DUE TO LONG EXPOSURE TO COLD. PLUG PRESENT AVERAGE TEMPERATURE OF RANGI INTO RED KEYBOARD.

Deriae examined the keyboard. There were two rows of ten numbers each, if zero was counted as a num­ber: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. Base ten. The Rangin system. He wondered briefly if the builders of this room used a system based on ten. But he had no time to consider the thought further.

Deriae punched a 6 into the first column and a 0 into the second, then waited. The message on the fourth screen changed again.

IF GREEN LIGHTS ON CON­TROL PANEL FLASH, PULL LE­VER BETWEEN THEM. THIS WILL INITIATE AND LOCK CONTROLS FOR ORBITAL CHANGE. IF LIGHTS DO NOT FLASH, OTHER MALFUNC­TIONS MUST BE TRACED.

The message held on the screen momentarily, then the entire fourth panel went blank.

I le sighed, and began his wait. He kit a slight disappointment at the simplicity of it all. He had not even had to use the tables which had ap­peared.

The control panel remained inert, waiting for the right signal. What if there were other malfunctions be­sides the failure of the temperature sensors? How would he know how to find them? What if there was a mal­function in the control panel. Per­haps all his efforts were in vain.

The green lights still had not come on when voices drifted in to him from the hall. He recognized one of them as belonging to Sjane and then they were upon him. Someone grabbed him and tore him from the control panel, spinning him roughly to the floor. Time began to blur.

"You were forbidden to come in here," Sjane remarked, but his voice was calm, not angry. "You have dis­obeyed a decree of the Council."

Deriae thought of the race who had built this room. They had extended the hand of friendship and tried to save Rangi. But they had failed—at least one of their machines had failed. And that was all it took, Deriae thought, for the Rangins were unwilling to save themselves.

Pain shot through his head, jab­bing at his skull. His mind wanted release from this nightmare. All his striving had been in vain.

Pain seized him once again. He needed one of his pills. But he dared not take one here. Or did he? He might die if he did not.

He fought the weakness which was attacking him and raised his head. There were three people in the room, Sjane, the guard, and Avaim Winsz. The latter had probably been responsible for the rough greeting.

Deriae blinked. Perhaps he could chance one of his pills. None of the three was looking at him. All were absorbed by the viewscreen: Sjane in wonder, the guard in fear, and Winsz in bitter anger.

Deriae reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out the bottle of pills, trying to hide them with his body. He plucked one out and jammed it into his mouth. It took three swallows to force it down.

Suddenly he realized that Sjane was staring at him. Had Liez seen? The blank expression of Sjane's face told Deriae nothing.

"What do all these pictures mean?" Sjane asked.

Strength was returning slowly. "T—they confirm the theory I ex­plained at the Council meeting."

"But—"

"Nonsense!" Winsz exploded. "He's senile. How can you believe a word he says?"

Deriae wobbled to a standing po­sition and leaned against the end of the control panel. Winsz was in front of the lever and there seemed to be no possibility of beating him to it, even if the lights came on in time. Jans could envision them flashing in vain to an empty room as he was dragged away.

"Those are your gods," Jans said, pointing across the room to the screen showing the descent of the aliens from the clouds. As he had hoped, Winsz also turned to glare at the indicated picture. Jans continued to watch the lights on the control panel as he went on. "Yes, they came from the heavens, but in a ship, a ship the like of which we will some­day be capable of building if we sur­vive that long. It—"

And suddenly words no longer mattered. Only actions did. The green lights were flashing.

Winsz saw them as soon as Deriae did. The Councilman backed slowly away in horror, his mouth gaping open, his crest rippling.

A little more, Deriae thought. A step more and I will be able to reach the lever before he can stop me.

Jans felt the bottle of pills in his hand and clenched them. It was his one chance to pull the lever because already curiosity was replacing hor­ror in Winsz's mind, but Jans knew it would be his death sentence. Even though he was old, with the aid of his pills he could expect another ten or twenty myuths of life, perhaps more. He had so much work left to do. There was the relationship of the dyplres and mhinreqs . . . and the Rangins. He sighed to himself. Yet what use would such knowledge be to a world condemned to die?

Jans felt the small glass bottle again, then silently extended his open hand towards Winsz. The Councilman's attention was seized and he turned from the panel.

"What—"he began, reaching for the pills.

Deriae dropped the bottle, and as Winsz groped down after it, Jans lumped for the lever. He snapped it into place just before Winsz recov­ered and hurled him to the floor.

The room blurred and Jans won­dered why Winsz did not hit him again. It did not matter, though. He looked up as his eyes began to focus and saw the new message on the fourth screen. He glanced at Winsz. The Councilman was staring at the message, the blood vessels over his eyes pulsing with anger. Deriae saw that all ten of his talons were ex­tended. Winsz's eyes flared wide and he grabbed the lever and tried to push it back to its original position.

But somehow Deriae knew that no Rangin would ever move that lever again.

"You've killed us all!" Winsz shouted. He glared at Deriae. "This chamber will be destroyed, I'll see to it." He whirled and strode from the room. The guard, grabbing at any excuse to flee, followed him.

Jans seized the instrument panel and pulled himself up. He swayed as dizziness overcame him, and would have fallen, but Sjane was there to steady him until the feeling passed.

"Do you need another pill?" Sjane asked.

"No, I—" He turned to look at his friend. "I thought that Winsz—"

"I picked them up while the two of you were struggling. Now I know why you so adamantly supported the move to legalize life-sustaining drugs."

Deriae nodded, and took the bottle from Sjane's hand. Sjane was smiling.

"Winsz will no doubt remember them when he recovers from his rage," Sjane went on. "I will produce a substitute bottle of pain-killers or something similar if he asks."

"Thank you, but I am not sure it matters," Jans said.

"What? I don't understand."

"I will try to explain." Deriae looked at his friend, searching those pale gray eyes in advance for the an­swer to the question he was about to ask, but could not find it. "Do you believe me now?" he asked at length. "Do you believe I was right about this chamber?"

Sjane waved his hand towards the pictures which still danced on the walls. "Only Winsz could fail to un­derstand now, and someday perhaps even he will believe." He pointed to the aliens. "They are strange crea­tures. I would like to meet them."

"We will," Jans replied. "I mean we are too old. But someday our races will meet again, I know it. That is enough for me. I will gladly use the additional myuths you have given me by returning my pills; there is always work to be done. But the work which remains can be done by others; what has been done could only have been done by me. Every life has a purpose; I accomplished mine tonight." He smiled slightly and turned to stare at the message on the fourth screen one more time.

REQUIRED ORBITAL CHANGE INITIATED