In Other Worlds
by A.A.Attanasio
version 1.0

Contents

Eating the Strange	18
Alfred Omega .	88
The Decomposition Notebook	146
He who looks does not find,
but he who does not look is found.

-KAFKA
	Carl Schirmer's last day as a human was filled with
portents of his strange life to come. As he completed
his morning ablutions, he saw in the bathroom mirror
his hair, what little of it there was, standing straight up.
He smoothed it back and tucked it behind his ears with
his damp hands, but it sprang back. Even the few
strands left at the cope of his shining pate wavered
upright. His hair was a rusty gossamer, and it stuck out
from the sides of his large head like a clown's wig.
	With his usual complaisance, he shrugged and
commenced to shave his broad face. Today, he sensed,
was going to be an unusual day. His sleep had been
fitful, and he had awoken to a breed of headache he had
never encountered before. His .head was not actually
aching-it was buzzing, as though overnight a swarm of
gnats had molted to maturity in the folds of his brain.
After completing his morning cleansing ritual and checking
the coat of his tongue and the blood-brightness under
his lids, he put his glasses on, took two acetaminophen,
and dressed for work.
	Carl was not a stylish or a careful dresser, yet even
he noticed that his clothes, which he had ironed two
nights before for a dinner his date had canceled and
which had looked fine hanging in his closet, hung
particularly rumpled on him that day. When he tried to brush the
wrinkles out, static sparked along his fingers. The morning was
already old,- so he didn't bother to change. He hurried through
breakfast despite the fact that his usually trustworthy toaster
charred his toast, and he skipped his coffee when he saw that no
amount of wire jiggling was going to get his electric percolator to
work. Not until he had left his apartment and had jogged down the
four floors to the street did he realize that his headbuzz had tingled
through the cords of his neck and into his shoulders. He was not
feeling right at all, and yet in another sense, a perceptive and ease-
ful sense, he was feeling sharper than ever.
	Carl lived in a low-rent apartment building on West 'Twenty-
fourth Street and Tenth Avenue in Manhattan, and he was not used
to smelling the river, though he was only a few blocks away from
the Hudson. This morning the air for him was kelpy with the
sweetand-sour smell of the Hudson. Immense cauliflower clouds
bunched over the city, and the blue of- the sky seemed clear as an
idea.
	He strolled down Twenty-third Street with an atypically loose
stride, his face uplifted to the path of heaven. Spring's promise-
haunted presence drifted through the tumult of clouds, which was
odd, since this was November. The rainbow-haired punks that
loitered about the Chelsea Hotel looked childbright and friendly
today, and Carl knew then that the ferment of a mood was indeed
altering him. But he didn't care. Though his blood felt carbonated, it
was wondrous to see the city looking benevolent, and he went with
the illusion.
	At the corner of Seventh Avenue, a drunk approached him,,
and he handed over a dollar, appreciating the serene desuetude of
the woman's face. Nothing could depress him this morning. And the
sight of the place where he worked sparked a smile in him. The
Blue

Apple at Twenty-second and Seventh was a bar and restaurant that
he managed. Except for the neon sign in the vine-trellised window,
the structure was antiquated and looked smoky with age. Until Carl
had come along, the narrow building had been an Irish bar with the
inspired name the Shamrock, run and owned by Caitlin Sweeney, an
alcoholic widow supporting her thirst and a daughter with the
faithful patronage of a few aged locals. A year ago, after losing his
midtown brokerage job to the recession and his own lack of
aggression, Carl had let a newspaper ad lead him here.. He had been
looking for something to keep him alive and not too busy. And then
he had met Sheelagh and wound up working harder than ever.
	Caitlin's daughter had been sixteen then, tall and lean-limbed,
with green, youthless eyes and a lispy smile. Carl was twice her age,
and he lost his heart to her that first day, which was no common
event with him. He had experienced his share of crooked romance
and casual affairs in college, and for the last ten years he had lived
alone out of choice sprung from disappointment. No woman whom
he had found attractive had ever found him likewise. He was
gangly, nearsighted, and bald, not ugly but lumpy-featured and
devoid of the conversational charm that sometimes redeemed men
of his mien. - So instead of contenting himself with the love of a
good but not quite striking woman, he had lived alone and close to
his indulgences: an occasional spleef of marijuana, a semiannual
cocaine binge, and a sizable pornography collection stretching back
through the kinky Seventies to the body-painting orgies of the
Sixties. Sheelagh made all the years of his aloneness seem
worthwhile, for she was indeed striking-a tall, lyrical body with
auburn tresses that fell to the roundness of her loose hips-and, most
exciting of all, she needed him.
	When Carl had arrived, the Shamrock was brinking on
bankruptcy. He would never have had anything to do with a
business as tattered as the one riven-faced Caitlin had revealed
to him were Sheelagh not there. She was a smart kid, finishing
high school a year ahead of her class and sharp enough with
figures and deferredpayment planning to keep the Shamrock
floating long after her besotted mother would have lost it.
Sheelagh was the one, in her. defiant-child's manner, who had
shown him' that the business could be saved. The
neighborhood was growing with the artistic overflow from
Greenwich Village, and there was hope, if they could find the
money and the imagination, to draw a new, more affluent
clientele. After talking with the girl, Carl had flared with ideas,
and he had backed them up with the few thousand dollars he
had saved. The debts were paid off, old Caitlin reluctantly
became the house chef, and Carl took over the bartending, the
books, and the refurbishing. A year later, the Shamrock had
almost broken even as the Blue Apple, a name Carl had
compressed from the Big Apple and the certain melancholy of
his hopeless love for Sheelagh. That love had recently increased
in both ardor and hopelessness now that Sheelagh had
finished high school and had come to work full-time in the
Blue Apple while she saved for college..
	On Carl Schirmer's last day as a human, when he entered
,the restaurant with his collar of red hair sticking out from his
head, his clothes knotted with static, and his eyes shining with
the beauty of the day, Sheelagh was glad to see him. The new
tables they had ordered had come in and were stacked around
the bar, legs up like a bamboo forest. "Aren''t they fine?"
Sheelagh asked.
	In the year since they had first met, she had filled out to
the full dimensions of a woman, and Carl was not

addressing the tables when he answered: "Beautiful. just
beautiful."
	With his help, she moved aside the old Formicatop table
from the choice position beside the window and placed the
new wooden one there. Sunlight smeared its top like warm
butter. She sighed with satisfaction, turned to Carl, and put her
arms about him in a jubilant hug. "It's happening, Carl. The
Blue Apple is beginning to shine." She pulled back, startled.
"You smell wonderful. What are you wearing?"
	He sniffed his shoulder and caught the cool fragrance
misting off him, a scent kindred to a mountain slope. "I don't
know," he mumbled.
	"Long night on the town, huh?" She smiled slyly. She
truly liked Carl. He was the most honest man she'd ever
known, a bald, boy-faced pal, soft around the middle but with
a quiet heart and an inward certainty. His experience as an
account exec had earned him managerial skills that to Sheelagh
seemed a dazzling ease with the world of things.. For the first
year he ran the entire business on the phone, shuffling loans
and debts until they. burst into the black. He was a solid guy,
yet he pulled no sexual feeling from her whatever. And for that
reason, he had become in a short time closer to her than a
brother. She had confided all her adolescent choices to him, and
he had counseled her wisely through two high school romances
and the lyric expectation of going to college someday. He knew
her dreams, even her antic fantasy of a handsome, Persianeyed
lover. "From the looks of your clothes," she went on, "your
date must have been quite an athlete." Her lubricious grin
widened.
	Carl pridefully buffed the thought with a smile and went
about his business. The redolence of open space spun like
magnetism about him all day, a day like most others: After
getting the espresso machine and the
coffeemaker going at the bar, he brought the first hot cup to a
hungover Caitlin in the kitchen.
	The old woman looked as wasted as ever, her white hair
tattering about her shoulders and her seamed face crumpled-looking
from last night's drinking. Grief and bad luck had aged her more
harshly than time, and she wore a perpetual scowl. But that
morning when she saw Carl back through the swinging door of the
kitchen, his hair feathering from his head and his clothes clinging
like plastic wrap, a bemused grin hoisted her features. "Don't you
look a sight, darlin'. Now, I know you don't drink, and you smell
too pretty to have been rolledso, mercy of God, it must be a
woman! Do I know her?"
	He placed the black coffee on the wooden counter before her,
and she quaffed it though the brew was ply boiling in the cup. "It's
not a woman, Caity."

	"Ah, good, then there's still a chance for my Sheelagh" -she
winked one liver-smoked eye-"when she's older and your hard work
and bright ideas have made us all rich, of course."
	Carl took down the inventory clipboard from its nail on the
pantry door. "Sheelagh's too young, and too smart to be interested
in a bald coot like me."
	"Hat That's what you think. And she too probably. But you're
both wrong." Caitlin sat back from her slump, refreshed by the
steaming coffee. "Baldness is a sign of virility, you know. My
Edward was bald, too. It's a distinguishing feature in a man. As for
being too young, you're right. She's young with ideas of going off to
college. But what's college for a woman? Just a place to meet a
roan."
	"You know better than that, Caity," Carl told her as he
prepared the reorder checklist. "Your daughter's smart enough to
be anything she wants to be."

	"And does she know what she wants to be? No. So why run
off to college when she could be making her fortune here with a
clever businessman like yourself? She should be thinking of the
Sham-of the Blue Apple, and the lifetime her father gave to this
place. before the Lord called him and his weak liver answered.
What's going to come of all this recent fortune and long hard work
if she goes away? I'm not going to live forever."
	"Not the way you drink, Caity. Have the ketchup and mayo
we ordered gotten here yet?"
	"They're in the cooler downstairs. I'm too old to stop drinking
now, Carl. I haven't long to go. I can feel it. Old folk are that way.
We know. But I'm not scared now that the Blue Apple has come
around. Forty years Edward and I put into this tavern. And only the
first ten were any good-but that was back when Chelsea was Irish. I
would have sold out when it all changed after the war, but Edward
had been brought up here, you know, and he had his dreams, like
you have yours, only he wasn't near as handy at making them real.
And then Sheelagh was born." She laughed, making a sound like
radio noise. "I was forty-five when she was born. Is she God-sent or
not, I ask you? Edward blamed the devil. No children for twenty-
five years, and then a girl. I think that's what finally killed him, not
the drink. If only he could have lived to meet you and see this: the
house jammed every night-and eating my food, no less. Take off
your glasses."
	Carl peered over the rim of his wire glasses as he arranged the
dry goods on the counter for that day's dinner menu.
	"Why don't you get contact lenses?" Caitlin asked him. "Those
glasses bend your face and make you look like a cartoon. And brush
back your hair. If you're going to be bald, at least keep what you've
got neat."
	Carl was well acquainted with Caitlin's ramblings and
admonitions, and he grinned away her jibes and checked the potato-
and-leek soup she had prepared yesterday far this day's lunch. The
old woman was an excellent cook. During the Forties she had
worked as a sous chef in the Algonquin, and her dishes were savory
and accomplished. She made all of the restaurant's fare with the
help of _a Chinese assistant who came in the afternoon for the
dinner crowd. When Carl saw that the menu for the day was ready,
he patted Caitlin on the shoulder and went out to set up the tables
for lunch.
	Caitlin Sweeney watched him go with a throb of heartbruise
that the airy, springstrong scent he trailed only sharpened. She
loved that man with a tenderness learned from a lifetime of hurting.
She recognized the beauty in his gentleness that a younger woman
like her daughter could only see as meekness. Like a lightning rod,
Carl was strong in what he could draw to himselfas he had drawn
more fortune to them in one year than her Edward for all his
brawny good looks had drawn in forty years. Carl had the prize of
luck only God could give. She saw that.- And she saw, too, that
Sheelagh, like herself in her hungry youth, yearned for the luckless
arrogance of beauty. She sighed like the warmth of a dying fire
leaking into the space-cold of night and put her attention on that
day's cooking chores.
	Carl was pleased that Caitlin encouraged his passion for
Sheelagh, believing that the old woman was only teasing his interest
in her daughter to keep him happy and hopeful. Carl's loneliness was
the only lack Caitlin could pretend to complete in return for all he
had done for* them. Besides, Sheelagh was too self-willed for her
mother's opinions to influence her even if the crone had really
thought he was right for her. Carl spent little time pondering it that
last day lie lived as a man, for he was kept busy with his own
strangeness.

Lightbulbs blinked out around him faster than he could replace
them. And as he worked the bar for the afternoon business lunches,
the reverie he had experienced that morning spaced out and
became moony and distracted.
	"You look pretty harried, sucker," a friendly, gravelly voice
said as the blender he was trying to run for a banana daiquiri
sputtered and stalled. He looked up into the swart-bearded face of
Zeke Zhdarnov, his oldest friend. Zee was a free-lance science
writer and parttime instructor of chemistry at NYU. He was a
thickset man with a penchant for glenurquhart plaid suits and
meerschaum pipes. Carl and Zee had been friends since their
adolescence in a boys' home in Newark, New Jersey. They had
nothing in common.
	At St. Timothy's Boys' Home, Zee had been a husky, athletic
ruffian and Carl a chubby, spectacled math demon. A mutual love
for comic books brought them together and defied their differences.
St. Tim's was a state house, and the place was haunted with
dispirited, vicious youths-from criminal homes. Zee offered
protection from the roughs, and Carl did his best to carry Zee's
classwork. At eighteen, Zee graduated to the Marines and Nam.
Carl sought personal freedom by applying his math skills to finance
at Rutgers University. A Manhattan brokerage drafted him straight
out of the dorms. Meanwhile in Nam, Zee was learning all there
was to know about the smallness of life. He paid for that education
cheaply with the patella of his right knee, and he came back
determined to invent a new life for himself. He studied science,
wanting to understand something of the technology that had
become his kennel. When that became too abstract, he went to
work for a New Jersey drug company and married, wanting to find
a feeling equal to the numbness that surrounded him. During his
divorce, he had sought
out Carl, and the pain and rectification of that time had
brought them together again, closer than they had ever
been. Carl had done poorly at the brokerage, stultified
by the anomie that had poisoned him from childhood
but only oozed out- of him after he had found enough
security to stop his mad scramble from St. Tim's and
catch the scent of himself. He had smelled sour, and
not until he had met Sheelagh and developed the Blue
Apple did he begin to feel good about himself. That was
a year ago when Zee had reappeared. Now Zee came
by often with a crowd of students to fill the Blue Apple
up, and Carl was always happy to see him. They shook
hands, and a loud spark snapped between their palms.
	"Wow!" Zee yelled. "Are you charged! You look like you're
being electrocuted-very slowly." He shifted his dark, slim eyes
toward the table Sheelagh was clearing, her pendulous breasts
swaying with her effort-. "She's overloading you?"
	"Today's an unusual day for me, buddy, but not that unusual.
What'll you have?"
	"Give me a Harp."
	Carl took out a bottle of Harp lager from the ice cooler and
poured it into a frosted mug. "The wiring's shot around the bar. I
can't get this blender or even the damn lightbulbs to work right."
	Zee reached over, and the blender purred under his touch.
"It's the same way with women and me. The touch must be light
yet assertive. I think you've got a lot of backed-up orgone in there."
He stabbed Carl's midriff with a swizzle stick. "How about a run
with me tomorrow? We'll follow the Westway down to the twin
towers. I'll go easy on ya."
	Carl agreed, and they chatted amiably about their usual
subjects-slow running and fast women-while Carl tended to
business. Later, as he was leaving, Zee leaned close and whispered:
"No sense wearing that

expensive cologne if you're going to dress like that." He
reached out to shake, thought better of it, saluted, and left.
	The rest of the day was a bumbling of small accidents for Carl.
The bar's electrical system gave-out entirely, and he had to mix
drinks by hand and repeatedly go down to the basement cooler for
ice. The tiny screws in his eyeglasses popped out; and he lost a lens
down an open drain. Napkins clung tenaciously to his fingers, no
matter how dry he kept them, and he spilled several drinks before
he got used to the paper coasters coming away with his hand.
Midway through the dinner shift, with the house jammed, the lights
began dimming. When he left; the bar to check the fuse box, the
light came up, only to fade again on his return. "This is weird," Carl
at last acknowledged, running both hands through his startled hair.
Sparks crackled between his fingers. "I'm going home." He went
over to the pay phone to call a neighborhood friend to cover for
him, but he couldn't get a dial tone. Moments later a customer used
the same phone without difficulty.
	Carl waited until Sheelagh came to the bar with drink orders,
then signed her toward a vacant corner. "What's wrong with me
tonight, Sheelagh?"
	"Your glasses are missing a lens. Your clothes need ironing.
And you really should comb your hair."
	"No--I mean, look at this." He touched her arm, and a large
spark volted between them.
	"Hey! Cut that out. That hurts."
	"I can't stop it. I've been electrocuting customers all day.
Look." He passed his hand over a stack of napkins, and the paper
rose like drowsy leaves and clung to his fingers.
	"It's some kind of static electricity," Sheelagh explained.
	"I'll say. What can I do about it?"
	"Keep your hands to yourself."
	Spark surges thudded through him whenever he reached for
metal, and after another hour .of stiffening jolts, he sat on a stool at
the far end of the bar and cradled his head in his hands.
	"Is it that bad, darlin'?" A gentle hand touched his bald head,
and another spark jumped.
	Carl looked up into Caitlin's whiskey-bright eyes. A -feeling of
bloated peacefulness buoyed him at the sight of her time-snarled
face. "Hi, Caity. Everything's wrong for me tonight. And I don't
even know why."
	"Just your luck taking a rest. Don't mind it. Have a drink."
	"Nah-but I'd better get back to work."
	"Wait." She took his hand, and another knot of electricity
unraveled sharply with her touch. "I have to tell you." The
marmalade-light in her stare dangled above him, and he could see
the whiskey burning in her. "If only I could tell you what I've been
humbled to. She doesn't know." She glanced toward where
Sheelagh was serving a table, her sinewy elegance shining in the dim
light. "You're a special man, Carl. Luck splits through you like light
through a crystal. I see that. I see it because I'm old, and pain and
mistakes have taught me how to see. You're a beautiful man, Carl
Schirmer." Her scowl softened, and she turned away and went back
to the kitchen. A customer called from the bar, and Carl rose like a
lark into a smoky sunrise.
	Caitlin's kind words fueled Carl for the rest of his last day, but
by closing time he was feeling wrong again. He felt tingly as a
glowworm, and all the tiny hairs on his body were standing straight
up. He left Caitlin and Sheelagh to shut down the Blue Apple and
walked home. An icy zero was widening in his chest, and he
thought for sure he was going to be sick. Nonetheless, the beauty he
had felt that morning was still there. Above the city lights, a chain
of stars twined against the

darkness, and the fabric of midnight shimmered like wet fur. Only
the bizarre emptiness deepening inside him kept him from leaping
with joy.
	So self-absorbed was he with the bubble of vacancy
expanding within him that he didn't notice the befuddled look on
the face of the kid whose huge radio fuzzed out and in as Carl
passed. Nor did he see the streetlights winking out above him and
then flaring back brightly in his wake. The midnight traffic slowed
to watch the neon lights in the stores along Twentythird Street
warble to darkness in his presence. Not until he had stumbled up
the blacked-out stairs of his own building and had fumbled to get
his key in the lock by the light of the sparks leaping from his fingers
did he notice that a thin ghostfire was burning coolly over his hands
and arms. He left the door unlocked behind him, afraid that
something awful was happening to him. His apartment lights, like
all the lights in the building; were browned out. The filaments in
the bulbs glowed dark red but cast no radiance. The TV worked bat
gave no picture, only a prickly sound. He wheeled the TV to the
door of the bathroom, and by its pulsing blue glow 'he had enough
light to take a cold shower. The chilled water invigorated him, and
when he looked down at his arms, he saw that the shimmering was
gone, if it had been there at all. Relief widened in him, and he
washed the one lens of his glasses and put them on to examine
himself more closely.
	The air was a vibration of luminance, and the wavering static
of the TV seemed louder and more reverberant. He slid open the
glass door to the shower, and his heart gulped panic. The TV was
blacked out. The illumination and the sound were coming out of
the air!
	He jumped out of the shower stall and nearly collapsed. The
bathroom was refulgent with frenzied
light; waterdrops hung in the air like chips of crystal. Through the
glare in the mirror, through an anvil. of ripping-metal noise, he saw
that his head was blazing with swirls of silvergreen flames.
Dumbstruck, he watched the terror in his brilliantly oiled face as
green fire fumed from his body in an incandescent rush.
	A white-hot shriek cut through him, and his body went glassy,
shot through with violet sparks and flurries of black light. Silence
froze the room to a cube of crackling light. And the last thing Carl
Schirmer saw was the glass of his own horrified face shatter into
impossible colors. '
	Zee was the first to see Carl's apartment when he came by the
next morning for their planned run. His knock went unanswered,
but he heard the TV, so he tried the door. And it opened. The
apartment smelled windshaken, bright as a mountaintop. Zee went
over to the TV, which had been wheeled across the room to face
the bathroom door and was blaring a morning soap. He turned it
off.
	"Oh sweet Jesus!" The words escaped him before he knew
what he was seeing. Ile bathroom was a charred socket. The
mirrors were purpled from exposure to an intense heat, burned
imageless. Zee entered, and the tiles crushed to ash beneath his
sneakers. He stood- numb in the scorched and shrunken room. The
seat of the fire-glossed toilet had curled to the shape of a black
butterfly, and the sink counter that had held toothbrush and
shaving implements was reduced to twisted clinkers.
	The police, later, would classify the fare as unclassifiable. No
human remains were found, and Carl was recorded as a missing
person.
	Caitlin and Sheelagh came by late in the afternoon

to see the mess themselves, and they found Zee still there.
	"What do you think happened?" Caitlin asked after she had
surveyed a blasted room.
	Zee was sittin on the couch in the living area where he could
see to the bathroom, staring as though he had not heard h r. He
tugged at his beard, twisting at the braid that had formed from his
daylong tugging. "Spontaneous human combustion," he whispered
without looking at her.
	"What?" The old woman looked to her daughter, who just
shook her tear-streaked face.
	"No one knows why," Zee answered in a trance, "but it
happens all the time-usually to old ladies who drink too much."
	Caitlin gave him a fierce, reproving look.
	"I'm not joking," he shot back. ."That's the statistic. Men burn
up, too. And I guess that's what's happened to Carl."
	"You mean, he just caught fire?" Caitlin sat down beside him
and peered into his face incredulously. "How can that be?"
	"I don't know. Nobody, knows. I read about it once. The best
theory they have is that imbibed alcohol ignites some kind of
chemical reaction in the body."
	"But Carl never drinks," Sheelagh pointed out, and then
straightened with the rise of a memory. "The police came by the
tavern. I told them he was feeling odd yesterday. Paper stuck to him
and sparks kept jumping from his. fingers."
	"Yeah, I remember that," Zee muttered. He stood up. He
went back to the bathroom for another look at the mystery. He
was a rational man, and he felt, muscularly felt, that there was a
reason for this.
	The blue, wide-sky fragrance was almost gone. Sunlight
slanted through the apartment window and
laid a diagonal bar across the purpled bathroom mirror. In the
brilliant yellow shaft, a shadow showed within the heat-varnish of
the mirror.
	"Hey!" he called to the two women. "Do you see this? Or am
I losing my mind?"
	Caitlin and Sheelagh entered the bathroom with trepid
alertness and peered where Zee was pointing. In the violet-black
sheen of the mirror, where the sunlight crawled, was the vaguest
shadow.
	"It looks like a tree crown to me," Caitlin said.
	"No-it's the outline of a head, neck, and shoulders," Zee
insisted, his finger frantically outlining the image.
	"Could be," Sheelagh conceded. "But it could also just be our
imagination."
	"I'm a science writer," Zee said impatiently, pressing his face
to the mirror. "I don't have an imagination. Get me a screwdriver.
Come on."
	Zee dismantled the mirror and took it to his studio office in
Union Square. For a while he experimented with it himself,
illuminating the surface with sunlight, arc light, UV light. Nothing
more than' the dimmest semblance of a human head appeared. And
the rorschached shape could really have been anything. But Zee
recognized the square of Carl's head, the familiar silhouette so oft-
seen in the darkness of lights-out at St. Tim's, too well remembered
from those lonely first years when a friend was the closest he got to
family. Hard as he tried, though, his amplifications distinguished
little more than an amorphous shadow.
	Then a friend of his who worked at IBM's
imageintensification lab in Jersey took pity on his feeble but
relentless efforts and decided to prove once and for all that the
mirror was a random fire pattern. A week later, the friend, pastier
and meeker-looking, presented him with a computer-enhanced
photograph. The five-by

seven-inch unglossed image showed a starburst of puissant radiance,
most of it blank with an unsealed intensity Daggered at the very
center, a clot of darkness resolved with a stabbing clarity to Carl
Schirmer's
horror-crazed features.
Eating the Strange
	Nothing-the blankest word in the language. A year ago,
Carl Schirmer vanished into nothing. How? I've come to
believe that the microevents in the atoms of Carl's body are the
key. I'm not a physicist, but I know enough science to guess
what happened to him. Here's what I figure:
	The very big and the very small-general relativity and
quantum mechanics--come together, at a fundamental unit of
length called Planck's length, which is the geometrical mean of
Compton's wavelength and Einstein's gravitational radius of a
particle. It looks like this:
1= h
	C3
	It's equivalent to about 10'3 centimeter. The edge of
nothingness. just beyond that smallness, spacetime

itself loses the flat, continuous shape we take for granted and
becomes a fantastic seething of wormholes and microbridges,
the tiniest webs and bubblings. Any part of this ceaseless
ferment lasts no more than the sheerest fraction of a -second.
It is the texture of Nothing. Like sponge. Or suds. Each
bubble is a solitary region of space: The surface of the bubble is
the farthest distance the center of the bubble can know about
in its brief lifespan because that's as far as light can travel in so
short a time. It's a universe in itself, existing only for that
fraction of time and during that fraction connecting our
universe with the ubiquitous Field that connects all universes.
	To see how this fact connects with Carl Schirmer, we have
to go back to Planck. At the end of the nineteenth century, he
was trying to explain why radiation varies with temperature. As
an object is heated, first it gets red-hot, then white-hot. It only
gets bluehot if the temperature increases. The higher
frequencies of blue require more energy-which was news in the
nineteenth century. Greater energy for shorter wavelengthsl
Not what common sense had learned from sound and water
waves, which need more energy the longer they are. The now
classic formula that predicts this phenomenon is E = hF where
h = Planck's constant:
	Since frequency is the inverse of time, the formula can be
written this way: E x T = Constant (h). Energy, as everybody
knows, equals mc2, mass times the speed of light squared.
What, after all, is the speed of light but a length of space
covered in a period of time. So, h actually equals Mass times
Length2/Time. ML2/T is called angular momentum.
	What is it? Basically, it's linear momentum times the
radius around which it spins, MIA x L = ML2/T, like a rock in
a sling. The amazing thing is that this
angular momentum, alias Planck's constant, can hold any
amount of energy at all! Like the skater who spins faster by
pulling in his arms, the frequency of a photon increases as its
radius, in this case wavelength, decreases. Fantastically, there is
no limit to this increase of energy, either. The smaller the
photon, the more energy it containsl
	Somehow, Carl turned into light. And that light did not
wholly irradiate away. If it had, a large part of Manhattan would
have been vaporized. Instead, the photons that made up Carl
increased in energy and shrank. The energy flux was so great
that Carl's body of light shrank smaller than the fine structure
of spacetime itself--and he fell through the fabric of our reality
into the seething superspace of quantal-tunnels, spume, and
foam-perhaps to expand again in another universe. This is the
ghost hole theory. A saner phrase than Nothing. But really, it's
just as senseless.

	I'm writing a science fiction novel. Shards of Time. It's
about Carl, of course, and the ghost hole that swallowed him.
Just now it's seeming that's all there is between me anti insanity-
this fabulous story of a man who turns into light, a man whose
fate I'd always taken for granted. Why are stories so long? The
text is already there, in the true history of accidents that brought
Carl and me together and then separated us. If I can just write it
before -my funds dry up, I may be able to sell it 'and not have
to move. I don't want to move-: There's been enough erasure
lately. I've barely the stamina left to imagine the lies that can
carry the ideas coming at me. The moment goes everywhere at
once. Unfortunately, the muscle of my memory is numb, and
my line of concentration has been wavering. I must rest.
Actually, I must restructure myself inside out. Perhaps I'll fast.

That's one way to restructure and save money at the same time.
	Caitlin Sweeney came to see me . The old lady was
surprised at this mess. She didn't know I'd lost my teaching
post. I think she was drunk. She wanted to see the mirror and
the photo again, and she sat for a long time by the window
looking at them. She wanted to know what they meant. I was
five or six gins into forgetting that day, and I told her
everything I've guessed about the ghost hole. When I was
done, she asked why other scientists weren't studying what had
happened to Carl. I tried to tell her that the mirror had become
scientifically inadmissible after I took it off the wall, but I
cracked up-laughing as much as cryingand that scared her o$:
Later, as it was growing darker and I was coming up from that
day's drunk, I remembered her bird-bright eyes and the queer
way she peered at the photo close up, the silver of leer breath
cutting the gloss again and again until she was sure of what she
was seeing. And now I'm sure. Carl isn't screaming with pain in
this photo. He's grimacing with intense pleasure!
-excerpts from The Decomposition Notebook by Zeke
Zhdarnov

	Orgasm ignited him. Hot as the sun's weight, space
molded his shape. He tried to move but could not budge the
pleasure. He tried to see and saw a hard blue sky, deeper than
his sight, quivering with delight. Listening, he heard his heart
moaning and his blood sizzling in his ears.
	The voltage of the orgasm wearied, and the himshaped
heat melted to a delicate warmth.
	"YOU ARE AWAKE!" A blowtorch voice seared his
hearing, and his whole being juddered.
	"Excuse me," the voice said more softly, deep as a man's
but lissome as a woman's. The words came from every
direction. "Can you tell me who you are?"
	He tried to speak, but his voice had to cross a dreamgap
between his will and his breath. When at last the words came,
the sound of his voice subtracted him from the pleasurable
stillness, and he immediately felt himself upfalling, floating
and turning through the blue nothing: "Who wants to know?"
	Carl drifted a long time. Blue filled the hollow bodiless
center of his mind with peace. Memory was a soft distance.
Expectation was unbegun.
	So when the voice returned, directionless as smoke,
intimate as a friend, the words embraced all of him, and he
listened rapt as the face of the world
	"At the end of time, in the last million years of the
universe, an unusual creature drifts through the slow hurry of
evolution into the glory and anguish of selfawareness: It is an
eld skyle, and it is I. I am vast by human standards: a cubic
kilometer of silaceous cell matrices intricately and delicately
interpenetrating. A colossal jellyfish floating in ,a lake: a
radiolarial system, highly evolved, yet stationary and witless-
looking as a brain without a body. To you I would look like a
cloudy pond shimmering with biotic iridescence. Yet what
makes me unusual is not my size or unlikely form. I am
unusual because I thrive almost wholly on ghosts. I eat the
past."
	"Wait a minutel Hold on nowl" Carl called through the
thickness of the nightmare. "Are you saying I'm alive? This
isn't the next world?"
	"It's another world, Carl," the gray voice answered.
	"How. do you know my name?"
	"I know everything about you."
	"Are you-God?"

	A hearty laugh towered like a megalith. "No. I'm as
mortal as you. That's why I can assure you-you're not dead."
	"How come I feel I should be?"
	"Perhaps because you are, at this moment, bodiless."
	`And you call that alive?" The propinquity of madness
alarmed him. "Where am I? I can't see myself."
	"You are inside me. I am reshaping you. To even begin to
understand how this is possible, you must know something
about my world. I live in a special region inside the cosmic black
hole at the end of time. The universe around me is small and
hot. Spacetime has long ago completed its expansion, braked,
and begun to fall back on itself. At the time of this telling, one
hundred and twenty-five billion years after your star, Sol,
cindered to frozen rubble, the whole universe is a mere six
hundred thousand parsecs wide, the distance from your earth
to the Andromeda galaxy. All of spacetime has been reduced to
a mote of what you knew the cosmos to be."
	"I knew the cosmos to go from Brooklyn to the Bronx,"
Carl's voice quaked. "Where am I?"
	"I've told you. You're at the end of time."
	"But why?" Carl whined. "I was just at home, taking a
shower-" ,
	"One hundred and thirty billion years ago."
	"I'm hallucinating. I must be hallucinating."
	"Would you rather not hear this?"
	"I have a choice?"
	"Of course." The eld skyle's voice had the long patience of
a horizon. "I am narrowing my five-space consciousness to
your human smallness because it plea: sures me. It's not at all
necessary. If you prefer, I'll just pass you on into my world.
Words are useful only if you can believe them. In your case,
perhaps, experience itself is the best teacher."
	"Well, if you put it that way-go ahead, tell me everything."
	The blue space holding Carl brightened like the fever of a
dream. "I'm glad, Carl. I've wanted to tell this story for a long
time. Let me begin again. We are now in a place many years in
your future. So far in the future that the universe itself is old
and dying. It is caving in on itself. In the whirlpool center of
this implosion, the most immense collapsar that has ever
existed spins, tusked with fiery streamers huge as galaxies.
The void around it flares with its radiant scud, too hot for
planets or even ordinary stars. But inside the black hole,
beyond its cyclone of neutron fire, where all things, even the
subtleties of light, are spellbound by gravity, a wonderful
kingdom exists."
	"And that's where we are now, right?"
	"Yes. The kingdom is called the Werld. It is a lightsecond
deep, and it is wide as thirteen earths. Most remarkable of all, it
is embedded in a bubble of ordinary spacetime, a gravitational
globule suspended inside the black hole. The spin of the
collapsar's ring nucleus distorts the infalling spacetime around
the vacuole kingdom, sealing the Werld o$' from the crushing
gravity that surrounds it on all sides. The nucleus of the black
hole is the kingdom's source of life, much the way Sol was the
lifesource of your planet-only in reverse. Sol was a star, and it
radiated the energy which sustained earthlife. The ring nucleus
here is a singularity, an infinitely dense zone where light and
spacetime cease to exist. The singularity pulls energy into it. The
radiation streaming past and through the Werld provides the
light and energy for life to thrive. After passing here, the energy
plunges on, into the nucleus, where it is destroyed. Except at
the exact center. There a hole in the ring singularity links into
superspace, an

infinite corridor that connects all the universes that
exist the multiverse. You popped out of that hole."
	"Any chance I could pop back in?" Carl queried hopefully.
	"I'm afraid not. You see, you came out as light. And
most of -you was lost in the ring singularity. Only some of you
shot straight through the hole of the ring, arced along a klein-
bottle warp, looking from the center of the black hole to the
periphery before plummeting back toward the core. Along the
way, your four-spat, journey intersected the top edge of this
kingdom and glinted here in this living lake--in me. A few of
your photons were captured by specialized cells just under the
glassy surface of my lake, and over a period of time equal to an
earth century, you were re-created from the information
inside your own light."
	Carl felt frosty with fear. "How do you know you got it
right?"
	"Every molecule of your form has been explored by my
five-space consciousness: and compared to the anthropic ideal
enfolded in the hyperspace of your genes. The flaws and
variances of the genetic ideal were the rough edges of your
individuality: your soft stomach, weak eyes, bald head, and
bloated kidneys. Those deviations from the perfection implicit
in your chromosomes are actually food to a being like me--an
eld skyle. I eat the strange. You see, my five-space mind
experiences you wholly, shining with the full possibilities of
life. There is a great potential difference between that and your
actual physical form. An eld skyle experiences a thrilling, century-
long rush of power as it rectifies the dimensionally charged gap
between the optimal and the actual."
	"Yeah, well, I'm glad this was a high for somebody. But
what's it do for me?"
	"What I've done for you, Carl"-the eld skyle
spoke with the exuberance of a game-show host "is to give you
a new body. It's fashioned from the lake sludge, but it's more
fully you than the old shape you endured. Your body has been
adamized, if you will accept my neologism. Like Adam, you
have now been made in the exact likeness of your nucleic
potential. You have been both exalted and reduced. Your
individuality is potentially less but your actual expression, your
stock strength, your innate animality, is greater."
	"Sounds great as an idea," Carl admitted, "but is it me?"
	"Apart from your new appearance," the eld skyle's voice
hushed through him, "you won't feel any differently than you
did one hundred and thirty billion years ago on earth. You are
still essentially yourself. Even your memories are intact. Let me
show you-"
	The presence of the eld skyle's voice vanished into a bleat
of silence. Anxiety shivered through Carl as the conviction that
he was not dreaming seized him. And then the glistening
pleasure returned. His fear shriveled. He had no idea what was
happening, but felt no fear at all. Warmingly, the blue void that
surrounded and buoyed him shimmered with movement. The
light jellied to images, glassy shapes from his past: St. Tim's ash-
colored buildings, canyoned Manhattan, the Blue Apple's dirty
bricks glowing in the city's crooked daylight. Faces snapped past
like the rags of fireworks: childhood buddies, teachers, lovers,
bosses, and his closest friend, Zeke, ZeeZee, Zeebo, the Zee,
his first hero, the big kid who had protected him from the
bullies, the grown man Carl had helped grapple with his
feelings after Nam and a divorce
	Gone.
	Dumbstruck and glowing with new feelings, Carl rolled
gently through the blue emptiness.
	'As you see, your history is still with you," the

voice returned, slender. "So is your fear. But I'm holding it in
check because you are from a special era of life. You have the
possibility of apprehending your fate, unlike the thousands of
other humans from earlier times that have given their
strangeness to me and gone on. They had no way of grasping
the concept of a final black hole or this marvelous kingdom
dangling within it. You are the first that I can speak to about
the infinity virus."
'I think you're overrating me."
"No. I am using concepts your brain has already
encountered."
	"Right, but my brain's a lot smarter than I am. Just take it
slow"
	"Certainty," the eld skyle agreed, sounding very
close in the whaled space. "The infinity virus arrived a billion
years ago. It came through the ring hole from somewhere in
the multiverse. It carried the information to build me and. all
the other lifeforms in the Werld. There is no archaeological
evidence of life older than a billion years ago anywhere in the
kingdom. None of the
many intelligences that live here now know where the virus
came from. Also, none of the lifeforms that evolved from the
infinity virus are humanoid. All the people in the Werld have
come here through eld skyles, as you've
come here." "You mean-I'm not alone? There are other humans
here?"
"Oh, yes. All of them, or their ancestors, have
come through me and my kind. We are the most evolved
product of the viral program. Our five-space awareness is
sustained by three primary factors: light infalling through the
collapsar's event horizon, the mineral honeycomb of the rock
that holds our liquid forms, and the dimensional charge from
assimilating the strangeness of other creatures. To satisfy the
last of these needs, eld skyles are equipped with a unique spore
designed very much like its viral ancestor. The spore is encoded
to activate only inside neurologies broadcasting a certain
frequency indicative of, self-awareness. After it is formed and
programmed, it is iridium-coated and ejected through a
waterspout high into the atmosphere. There its glide-shape
catches the powerful axial winds of the Werld, and it is
propelled into the fibrous, filament-wide tunnels that connect
the fringes of the gravity bubble with the superspace in the
open center of the singularity."
	"All this for a meal?" Carl was giddy with the weirdness
of his predicament. "You're a five=space being and you haven't
even invented fast food yet? Come on."
	"This does sound complex from a three-space view, I
grant you. But let me go on. It takes my spore years to reach
the hole in the singularity, but the instant it gets there, it
vanishes into the multiverse and just as instantly appears
somewhere in the infinite elsewhere. Of course, most of the
spores are lost. Even with their iridium armor, the heat of the
stars and the far greater endlessness of space defeat them. Only
the tiniest fraction of the trillions of spores ejected by an eld
skyle ever find their way to a useful environment."
	"Well, you're obviously doing something right."
	"Yes, indeed. Entirely by chance, one spore reached the
planet earth eighty-four million years before you were born. It
hovered in the reservoir of ionic detritus of the upper
atmosphere for a hundred thousand years or so before sifting
down into the biosphere. A fish ate it first, and the molecular
lock of the spore's surface bonded it to the nerve tissue of the
creature. The spore passed along from animal to animal as
food for millions of years. For a long while it lapsed, into the
limbo of silt before being taken up by a plant, eaten, and carried
once again by the life frenzy. Thirty-two thousand .years ago,
the spore was ,eaten in a piece of badger meat by a

lake-dweller in neolithic Switzerland. That was one of your
ancestors."
,
"No wonder I'm a vegetarian."
	"The frequency of her neurology was complex enough to
activate the spore, which immediately sited itself in her genetic
material. Fifteen hundred generations later, the spore received a
subquantal signal from me, the eld skyle that began its journey,
one hundred and thirty billion years in the future. That signal is
the key to this whole cycle. It is an inertial wave signal and
propagates through superspace instantly. My need is felt
everywhere that my spores are, for the spores are inertially
identical to me. My five-space mind selects an activated spore
from somewhere in creation by sensing and evaluating. the
complexity of the spores' hosts, and at my discretion, the
chosen spore begins its delivery."
	"So-bingo-here I am."
	"Would you like to, hear more about the mechanism of
your journey?"
	"Why not?"
	"As soon as I selected you, the spore's master program
went to work on two fronts-your body's neuromolecular field
and your universe's inertial field."
	"You've already lost me."
	"Bear with me. The spore flooded your body with a
complexly designed substance modeled on your body's natural
neurotransmitters. It mimed your own nerve chemicals so that
it could penetrate the RNA in the synapses of your nerves.
Within forty-eight hours, every RNA molecule in your body's
synapses was fitted with the spore's neurochemical. The spore
chemical modulated your nerve impulses, ' triggering a neural
feedback pattern in your sensory ganglia, brain stem, and
limbic area that you experienced as intense, inexplicable
euphoria. But that was a mere side efect."
	"I'm beginning to feel that I'm just a side effect," Carl
despaired.
	"In a manner of speaking, you are. You're a projection of your
body. The main thrust of the spore saturation was to generate a
waveform hologram of your body, inside out, atom by atom. Once
that waveform came on, the electric resonance of your nervous
system began harmonizing with the magnetic field of the earth. The
harmonic buzz charged you with the billion-volt potential
difference between the ionosphere and the earth. You were walking
lightning."
	"That explains why I was sparking all day."
	"Yes, that took the better part of a day. But what happened
next happened swiftly. The wave resonance of you and the planet
began to pick up the overtonal harmonics of the sun's field, the
local stars, even the galaxy. By that time, you were hypercharged,
and the water in your shower was sustaining such a strong transfer
charge that it was flying away from your body. Your waveform was
in resonance with the charge of the universe itself. A few moments
later you reached concrescence, the point where the resonation of
you and the universe was precise enough to supply the energy for a
local collapse. In a sliver of a second, the immense energy transfer
from the universe shrank your light pattern into a space smaller than
ten to the minus forty-third centimeter, smaller than the grain of
spacetime. Your collapsed waveform fell into a hypertubule, a
wormhole entrance into the multiverse smaller than a quark. The
inertial imprint of the spore guided you here. And so the circle
joins."
	The voice vanished again, and Carl's body tightened with the
silence. Ahead of him, space wrinkled, and a warp of sunlight
spalled the blue distance.
	"You're surfacing now," the eld skyle spoke. "You're

rising out of my watery depths. You've listened patiently, and
finally it's time for you to confront your new life.
	"Hey, not yet," Carl called out. "You haven't told me
anything about this place."
	Tremulous, sudden brilliance stunned Carl. He felt the rising
rush of his body. His back arched, and just as he realized that he
was indeed in water, he split the surface like a man collapsing. The
air gulped him, and his hungry lungs ached with the cold. As he
splashed to his back, lurching and flapping to find his balance, his
senses swooped in on him.
	Haws of birdnoise burst on all sides,- and a flock of
snakeheaded blue egrets swarmed off the water and into the air.
The sky was a radiant purple, sunless yet gleaming. Its brightness
heaved off the water and hurt his eyes.
	Jesus Flippin' Christ," he gasped, the words cold in his mouth.
	The snaky egrets were flapping toward a boulderstubbled
shore. He swam after them even though he did not know how to
swim. The water he was in was thicker than water, so buoyant it
was holding him up. His meagerest efforts to move were enough to
spin him wildly, and several moments passed before he coordinated
himself to move in one direction. By then, his eyes had adjusted to
the slam of the strong light, and he could see the shore more clearly.
It wasn't a shore. It was a rim-a wall. The boulders were immense.
The bigger ones on either side of him were small islands wraithed
with misty flowers. Ahead, the blue egrets landed on their
reflections in the bright shallows.
	"Before you reach my edge, I do have something more to tell
you." The sound of the voice was alarming. It seemed to come from
all around. Carl whirled., After he had calmed himself and begun
sliding toward the shallows again, the eld skyle's lucent voice
continued:
"The Werld is vast, Carl. Its appearance will awe you, for you've
never seen anything like it. Crags of treecrowded rock floating in
space, glinting with waterfalls and rainbows, the purple sky
around them swarming with their shadows and the tumbling
clouds. It's beautiful beyond words. Hard, even for me, to
believe that when the infinity virus first arrived here, there was
nothing but infalling cosmic dust and light. The virus
proliferated close to the inside of the event horizon in the high-
energy light and collected the cosmic dust into exoskeletons.
That served as shields, allowing the organism to draw even
closer to its power source. Like coral, only much faster, the
exoskeletons accumulated along the fields of force laced
throughout this gravity vacuole. Over millions of years,
planetoids formed around the standing resonance patterns of
those gravity waves. The gaseous emissions of the swiftly
evolving viral descendants created a watery, oxygen-bright
atmosphere which now is only slightly richer than the one you
once breathed."
	The sky was so bright that Carl had to float facedown.
When he turned his head for air, he asked: "Where are the
people you said were around?"
	"Many sentient lifeforms are present in the Werld at this
time," the eld skyle answered, its voice sounding as if it spoke
from the core of his brain. "Few are humanoid. In fact, the
most technologically advanced planetoid, Galgul, is occupied by
the predominate sentience of the Werld-the zotl. They're
arachnoid creatures that exist as fused male-female units. The
female is almost twice the size of a human and apparently
featureless-a black, furry barrel to your eyes---but quite
intelligent. The males are smaller, not as bright, . but very deft
and fast. They're spidery, about the size of your hand, and red
or black depending on their social status. They've adapted four
of their eight appendages

into wings, and they can hover or soar. Their other four legs
are actually arms with powerful and agile grippers. They see
with remarkable acuity in infrared and your visible range. Most
of their communications are hormonal, though they also have
a click language several orders more complex than dolphin
speech. The male.female components must unite regularly to
survive; since each half alone completes only part of their
metabolic cycle. They eat nitrogen, light, and the painproducts
of other creatures. Here in the Werld, their favorite food is
humans."
	"Great. You've eaten my strange, and they want to eat the
rest."
	"I'm warning you about the zotl because once you go
over my edge, you'll be beyond my reach. The zotl are as
intelligent as humans, with a technology of their own. They
herd humans and use them as they need. A zotl feast is
ghastly. The male zotl piths the back of the skull, and a needle-
fine tubule is inserted into the amygdala, the pain center of the
brain. The human is paralyzed but quite aware of what is
happening. The awareness is important to the zotl's digestion,
so the captive brain is injected with a serum that heightens
perceptions. Then the pain center is activated, and the human
suffers. The torment is horrendous, a molten tearing, all the
more terrible because the body is left intact and is nourished by
the zotl's glucose wastes. The feeding can last for weeks."
	"I want to go home!" Carl cried and rolled to his back in
the thick water. His white body gleamed in the hot light.
"Look at me I'm naked. How can I. defend myself naked?"
	"The only defense against the zotl for you is to avoid
them. There is .a tribe of humans at your level of development
who live avoidance. They have no advanced technology, as that
would attract zotl hunt
ers; however, their culture is rich. I've inscribed their .language
in your brain, and you'll have no: trouble communicating with
them. They call themselves Foke. I've arranged for a thornwing,
a kind of bird-plant, to take you to Tarfeather, the Foke's
present secret home. And to complete my birthing of you as a
man, I've modified your sex hormone, alpha androstenol, to
attract a woman I know of among the Foke. Her name is Evoe,
and she knows the Werld. If you treat her wisely, she will be
your best ally."
	Carl's backstroke picked up as a gigantic sense of future
rose in him. "I don't know what to say"
	"Then listen. There are a few more things you should
know about the Werld. The scattered foci of gravity nodes that
give the Werld its unique contours also magnetize space in.such
a way that the unwinding of your supercoiled DNA is
inhibited. Which means you won't age. Genetic chipping by
cosmic rays is limited at the Midwerld level of the Foke by the
atmosphere and the planetoids between them and the horizon,
where the radiation enters. And there are as yet no viral cancers,
colds, or diseases. Death is an accident here. And there is
bounteous, opportunity for accidents, for the gravity contours
and the winds of the Werld are treacherous. Not to mention
gumper hogs with maws like sharks, poison dagger lizards, and
mansized blood beetles. Learn well what the Foke have to teach
you, and you will live long."
	"Oh, God, eld skyle," Carl moaned. "I feel like fishfood
floating in an aquarium. Can't you give me a gun or a knife or
even some clothes?"
	The eld skyle's voice was gone. Only the waterlammed
sounds of the shore filled his hearing.
	Carl's efforts had carried him over the slippery surface to
the shore. Black sand dimpled under his hands as he pushed
himself to his knees. The shallow

water unruffled, and he saw a red-bearded, brass-haired man
with a square-boned face and thick shoulders. It was he. Those
tentative hazel eyes were his own. He reached out and touched
the blindness of the water. The reflection wobbled. Slow with
disbelief, he lifted his arms and stared at the circuitry of veins
and the straps of muscle straining for use. His chest was smoky
with russet hair and his abdomen squared with strength. The
blood-drum beat louder as his wavering fingertips followed
the taut planes of his face to his mane of sleek, redgold hair.
Suddenly, the silence of the eld skyle was more real than its
voice had been, and Carl sat back in the thick water as what it
had said recurred to him.
	"Adamized," he mouthed, peering at his reflection,
tugging at his -hair, and grinning like a lunatic. The numbness
of the eld skyle s ecstasy was thinning, tingling with the
implications of all Carl had just learned.
	"Carl Schirmer," he said to himself, "look what's
happened to you. It can't be real. It is real, bumblewit. But it
can't be. Eld skyle, if you can hear me-you did a great job. If
only I could take this home with me."
	He looked about to see where he was. The sandbar where
he was kneeling curved into a black sand beach beneath eel-
black dolmen rocks. Carl took one more look into the
surprised explosions of his eyes, then heaved himself to his
feet and slogged up the beach. The windhoned rocks were
pitted and fractured, and even though he was naked, he had no
difficulty scaling the rockface to the top.
	A wall of wind surfed along the ledge, and he squinted
against the cold Push and the brash sunlight at islands floating
in the sky. For as far as he could see, huge chunks of rock
floated in space, their irregular surfaces covered with slim,
elegant trees and golden grass. The nearest skyle hovered
several hundred meters away. Dark-green curtains of spruce
draped cliffwalls
that banked a long lake. Another eld skyle, Carl realized, and he
glanced back toward where he had come from. The glare off the
water sprained his seeing, and he had to stare at the tree-staggered
coast to clear his eyes. Trembling smells of cedar and pine riffled in
the air, and hot light sighed off dusty rocks.
	When he could see clearly again, he gazed back over the edge
into the gulf of floating islands: Delirious cloudshapes obscured the
distances, melted-looking sprawls of silver and gold archipelagoed
with skyles. With astonishment he noticed that a waterfall at the
bottom of a nearby skyle was falling upward, toward the skyle.
	While he studied the apparent anomaly, a thick bark-tattered
vine skirled its way along a fissure in the outside wall, moving
serpentwise toward him. He was mentally reviewing what the eld
skyle had told him about focalized gravity nodes when the slither
vine curled over the edge and snagged his ankle.
	"Ee-yow!" He jumped with fear and tripped forward, falling
to his face. Another startled bark escaped him before the vine
yanked him off the wall and into the abyss. The wind kicked the
breath out of him; and he sprawled, expecting to fall. Instead, he
flew sideways along the rimwall and plunged into a net of thorny
meshed vines. The net snapped about him, enwrapping him tightly
in a pod that broke away and plummeted into the gulf.
	Carl's face was clear of the binding tendrils, and he could see
the raptor of the pod's tiny hooked head and the taloned vines
dangling below. The underside of the eld skyle swung into view,
revealing another lake ringed with twisted trees, its surface velvety
black.
	Carl heard the flap of wings above him, and the thornwing
caught a powerful current and swooped through a swarm of skyles.
The tug of the abrupt curves squeezed

his insides, and the physical reality of what was happening loomed
up in him. As the thornwing glided through the bright tatters of
cloud among the sky-hung buttes, he flashed to his old life-the Blue
Apple, Caitlin, and Sheelagh. An astonished hilarity quaked in him,
rippled with fear. The memory of the eld skyle's voice was all that
reigned in his madness. One hundred and thirty billion years had
passed. The wind of the thornwing's flight streamed over him, yet
he was basted with sweat.
	As they dropped deeper into the Werld, the light of the sky
changed. Vast wells of peacock-blue space' churned with golden
clouds. Flocks of winged animals arrowed along flyways in all
directions. And everywhere, kingdoms of black rock and blue forests
hung in the air. Some of the skyles were so huge that skimming over
them was like flying on earth again, watching the woods of
Pennsylvania rolling by, until the edge curved past and the sky
billowed with distance.
	Among far-off skyles, glass towers flashed. Carl glimpsed them
briefly before a metallic scream ripped his hearing to deafness. A
finned black metal boomerang big as a Ferris wheel spun out from a
tower of clouds and sliced through the air only meters away. The
thornwing squawked and looped a tight arc, volplaning with the
slipstream of the craft. Then the thornwing's glide cut through the
interior of a cloud, and the oystery blankness obscured sight for a
long time. The flightscream of the craft thinned with distance, and
the thornwing rolled into a relaxed glide.
	The diffuse light rusted as they went deer. When they
swooped out of the clouds, the Werld was dusky. Scarlet walls of
cumulus toppled on all sides, and the hollows of the skyles
brimmed with night.
	Tiny lights winked from the darkside of a skyle. As the
thornwing rushed closer, Carl saw that the sparks were lanterns
held by shadowy figures. The thornwing
arrowed toward the figures, the frayed tips of trees brushing
past and the rocky forest floor hurtling by. They were dressed
in animal skins and leather thongs. When they sighted the
diving thornwing with its torpedoed passenger, their startled
cries cracked the nocturnal silence, and they bolted.
	They howled as they ran, conferring frenziedly while
dodging branches and fallen trees. All at once, they halted and
heaved their lanterns at the thornwing, The lanterns collided in
midair and burst into a gush of sparks. Hot flechettes stung
Carl along the length of his body, and he heard the thornwing's
shrill cry as the burning embers caught in it shaggy hide.
	Its tendriled embrace broke, and Carl collapsed onto the
duff-cushioned ground. Flopped out on his back, he witnessed
the thornwing's retreat. With its sheer wings withdrawn, it was
a tangle of spiked vines and vetch. It rolled along the ground
like a tumbleweed, glinting with the sparks it had caught, and
finally unwrapping into a gawky, spiderlegged flap of bluegreen
wings.
	One of the fur-wrapped people snapped open a bow and
swiftly strung an arrow. But as he was sighting the thornwing,
Carl lurched at him and spoiled his shot. The thornwing
arched overhead in time to see Carl thrown back to the ground.
It rauked once and soared out of sight.
	Hoots and shouts clattered in the chill air, and the fur-
strapped people were around him. They chided his nakedness,
his clumsiness, and his interference. And he understood them.
Their language was a rushed sibilance, a strange whisper-
tongue, yet he recognized it: "He let the flopwing get away!
Break his wrist."
	"Leave him be. He's nothing. Did you see him hit the
ground like a bag of roots? Haw!"
	"At least we can -see he's a man," a woman's voice

added, "and a large-sized one at that!" Giggles and female
voices fluttered.
	"He's obviously an eld dropping," a male's coarse voice
said. "Let's leave him here."
	A shouted "No!" jumped from the women in the small
crowd. "We must bring him to the wizan," one of the women.
spoke. "It is the law"
	"Crawl" The man's voice coarsed again. He stepped
forward where Carl could see him: a bleak man in wolf and
snakeskins, his youthful blackbearded face already sharp and
hard as a flintedge. At his hip, in a lizardhide holster, was a
handgun. "I'm the chief of this run, and I say we leave him. If
he's alive when we circle, back this way, we'll take him to
Tarfeather."
	"Right, Allin!" another of the men called out. "Let's get to
Rhene and free our Foke now"
	"Please; go," Carl agreed from where he was back=
sprawled. He cast a glance over the forest-hackled ridges of the
skyle. "I can make myself comfortable here if you'd leave me
some clothes."
	Silence boomed. Allin took one step closer to Carl. "You
speak Foke."
	"He's not a skyle dropping," one of the others guessed.
	"I think I am," Carl said, sitting up. "Me eld skyle gave me
your language before sending me out into the Werld. You're
the Foke, right? From Tarfeather."
	Mutters shivered through the group. Allin hushed them
with a slant of his cubed head. His black hair was pleated tightly
to his skull and dangled in corded bangles to his shoulders.
The small hairs at the crown of his forehead twitched. "You are
the first dropping that I've heard speak." His tiny eyes were
brown and flecked with gray glints as though they were
sweating. "Where are you from?"
	"Uh-earth. A planet that existed a very long time ago.>
..
	Allin cut him off: " No, fool. Where in the Werld are you
from?"
	"The eld skyle?" Carl offered.
	Allin snorted with frustration. One of the others stepped
closer, a broadfaced woman with short, brindled hair; she said to
Carl: 'Allin wants to know where the thornwing picked you up.
There are millions of eld skyles. What you saw on the path you flew
from there to here could help us a great deal."
	"Craw, it could save our lives!" Allin snapped.
	"Did the thornwing fly the Cloudgate?" the brindlehaired
woman asked. "You know the Cloudgate."
	Of course he did. The information was there with the
language, rising to his awareness as an image: Clouds swirled like
the wheel of the galaxy, helixing a
'spiral that. corkscrewed the length of the Werld. Because of the
large-scale gravitational refraction of the infalling light, one side of
the Werld glowed bluish and the. other side ruddy. The direction of
the cloud's drift toward either of those different sky colors told
which side of the Werld one was on. Also, the intensity of the light
revealed depth from the Eld, which was the fire of photons and
nucleons falling through the event horizon. The Eld's. antipode was
the Rim, the land of night and the lower edge of the Werld where
spacetime funneled rapidly toward the core of the black hole.
	This information bristled in him, but he lacked the Specific
knowledge-he did not remember the shade of haze in the sky or the
drift of the clouds. He told them as much, and Allin turned away
from him with disgust.
	"Wrap him up," the leader ordered, "and let's go. It's a long
journey to Tarfeather."
	Before Carl could react, several of the men seized him and
bound him with leather cord in a plump,

scratchy blanket. Two men carried him like a rolled-up
rug, and everyone ran through the trees toward the
falloff of the ledge. Carl's head was free, and he saw the
front runners bound off the cliff, somersault in midair,

and shoot high into the sky. Carl gawked to see the feet of the men
carrying him rush through a crinkling of dead leaves to the edge of
the ridge and leap. A veil of forest unfolded-below them, and Carl
clenched against the tug of gravity. Instead, the forest spread below
him and retreated. A powerful undertow was hoisting them
upward. The skyle they had been on fell away, and they were sailing
swiftly into a lake of empty space. There, the contour of banked
space leveled, and they positioned their bodies to glide in the
direction of their choice.
	Allin led them toward a keyhole of brilliant light among a
cluster of skyles. The flight was a lengthy one, for on the other side
of the cluster was another, huger sea of emptiness. Deprived of the
familiar temporal rhythms of night and day, - the many hours
seemed interminable to Carl. For a while, he occupied himself with
the wonder of his new experience. But that was too bulky.
Everything was so new to him that the information that the eld
skyle had implanted in him packed his mind, and nothing was clear.
	He concentrated and saw the Werld in his mental eye the way
the Foke did: The fierce light of the collapsing universe came
through the Eld and fell first into the Welkyn, the upper Werld;
then through the gold spiraling clouds to the crepuscular Midwerld,
where they were now; and finally down - into Rataros in the
darkness at the Werld's edge-the Rim. Flexing his neck, he could
see the arc of the sky and just barely discern the pastel difference in
shades between the red and blue extremes. He dozed and pondered
and dozed again.
	Carl was roused when the men guiding him along their
fallpath took a firm grip and pulled him sharply to one side.
His insides lurched, and he woke to find himself gently rolling
in the sky toward a tiny crevassed skyle. "Where are we?" he
asked in English and then again in Foke.
	"Be quiet," one of the carriers admonished. "We're being
stalked."
	They rotated him so that he could see the black,
boomerang-shaped craft that was hovering a thousand meters
away. It looked like a splinter in the dusk.
	"They haven't seen us yet. We're going to hide and wait
until-"
	A star glinted at the head of the viper-flat craft, and the air
around them thumped with the pressure of a nearby
explosion. By the time the boom erupted, they had rolled
through the sky to the other side of the skyle.
	Another blast scythed the top off the small skyle and
fountained the surrounding space with gravel.
	The poke touched down on the tiny skyle and licked off
again: immediately, bounding toward the next nearest skyle.
Before they reached it, the small skyle they had thrust off
wobbled under repeated fire. The din ruptured hearing, and
with a deafening force, the skyle shattered.
	The pulverized rock spun away from a writhing, electric-
blue bolt of ionized air. A spearhead of crushed stone pierced
the skull of the man carrying Carl. His partner clutched at Carl,
and the two whirled with the humbling force of the
devastation.
	A dizzying plunge whipped seeing to a blur. Impact
jolted sense out of Carl, and he lay spraddled face up, staring at
the distant black grin of the killer ship,
	"Get up, you foal!" Allin's angry voice cut deeper than
Carl's daze.

	Carl sat up and realized that the binding straps had burst.
The rug moved slickly under him. He had landed on the man
who was carrying him. The dead man's face was twisted around
a purple scream.
	"Come on, idiot!" Allin shouted again. "Get over here
before they fire again."
	Carl staggered to his feet and gawked at the spired
precipice he was on. Allin was waving to him from another
skyle across a gap that dropped into gaudy, cloud-fiery
distances.
	Carl balked. Allin called out once more: "Just leap as hard
as you can! The fallpath will carry you."
	Carl's muscles were stymied with fear. Allin moved to
bound toward him, but at that moment the gunship fired
again. A brain-stuffing roar shook Carl to his knees. The ship
had hit the spired skyle he was on.
	Voices cried through the muddy echoes of the blast. He
looked up and saw five of the Foke vaulting toward him. The
sight of them coming for him stood him up. He waved, the
ship flashed again, and the five flyers burst like blood bags.
	Allin roared and leaped into space. He shot over the gap
and rammed headlong into Carl, hurtling them both off the
spire as it splattered under a direct hit.
	Carl retched for breath and glimpsed veins of inky dust
bleeding into the alien sky-glimpsed streaming manes of blood
and a blue tangle of intestine-before Allin hit him and soared
him into darkness.
	He came around a minute later, and they were lying in the
tall grass on the edge of another skyle. The blow had unlocked
his clarity, and be saw with sharp precision for the first time.
His head was twanging with pain, his sight greasy with tears,
and he quaked with the memory of his cowardice and the grim
result. But for once, he recognized the truth of where he was.
Overhead, the corpses were unwrapping in the flow of
the fallpath. In a cloud of blood, ravelings of entrails wavered
like a shredded banner, and heads and limbs in rags of flesh
toppled in a slow spin.
	Behind the spur of rock where they lay, the gunship
waited. Its name shimmered into Carl's awareness: It was a zotl
jumpship-perhaps the zotl jumpship that he had seen earlier
when the thornwing was gliding with him through .the
Welkyn. Now that he remembered, he was convinced that the
ship had been arcing down toward these gloaming levels. It
would wait to see if there was movement. The zotl's detectors
were useless against them, because they had no radios and little
metal with them, apart from Allin's pistol. The jumpship was a
carrier vessel and would be reluctant to come closer. Too many
others had been destroyed by plastique bombs. That
understanding settled Carl into a wait, though his insides were
jangling with what had just happened.
	He pressed his back into the wet ground under him and
stared through the mess of broken shapes at the motes of
skyles hanging higher than his sight into the tottering reaches.
And in that moment, under, the fluttering smoke of smashed
bodies, lives lost to save him, he awoke.
	Until the keen agony of that time, he had merely been a
name, Carl Schirmer, in an endless life that could have been
happening on earth or in the Werld or anywhere. He was just
the shadow of his smiles and words and habits. He was just
the scree of time, a jumble of genetic and historical accidents
that he called I. . He had been too muddy with flaws and
selfish emotions to carry any reflection, so he never really was
self-aware, he never was an I, until he had been chased to the
tip of death.
	Lying there, watching the flame-antlered clouds and,
nearer, the drifting gore of the dead, the voltage of

his life sizzled into awareness. His hard brain went soft, and he
felt his livingness as never before. His body was strong,
powerful even, and the animal tension in his nerves smoldered
in his muscles, eager for movement.
	The eld skyle had indeed adamized Carl,, for he had never
experienced before the integrity of bone and tendon that he
knew now. A new health, made terribly alert .by contrast to the
stew of body parts swimming above him, centered his
perceptions. All at once, Carl was an I, an ephemeral
summoning of minerals, water, and light into mind. The
gruesome deaths of the five Foke jarred him into the itchy,
gummy, renitent physicality of his body. The adamized
changes made that immersion easier and more palatable. His
flat feet were gone and the achy calves-that went with them.
The hair on his hulled chest had the glow of fur. And the
vitality of his lifeforce stretched him above the dumbness of
his meat into the unchangeable domain of I.
	"Let's go," Allin breathed from nearby.
	His voice sharpened Carl's focus, and Carl felt the chill air
gnawing him. He was still naked. He rolled to his side and saw
Allin bellycrawling deeper into the long grass. He scuttled after
him, ignoring the switching cuts of the blades and the thistly
ground. At the far end of the long field, the earth (ah, ironic
word? crumbled into a deep deciduous pit.
	"We're going to jump again," Allin told him. His red eyes
were a smear of disdain. "Do you think you can do it?"
	The side of Carl's jaw where Allin had hit him pulsed
louder. "Hell, let's go."
	Allin pushed to his feet, dashed to the lip of the pit, and
leaped upward.
	Carl followed. His urgency to embrace this miraculous life
erased his fear, and he lunged off the precipice.
The upward undertow snagged him at once, and he lofted on the
cold wind into the opal sky of Midwerld.
	Allin had techniques for riding the, fallpath that allowed him
to vary his speed and direction. He bowed his body, reaching
behind him for his ankles and the straps of his strider sandals. He
slowed and slid back until he was beside Carl. He took some
moments to show Carl how to hold himself-sleeking himself for
speed and twisting for direction. The Foke used the flaps of furs
like sails to steer himself. Finsuit, the term came to Carl.
	Carl glanced back but did not see the black splinter of the
jumpship. When he looked forward again, he noticed the survivors
of the group circling ahead. They were furious at him, and he
couldn't blame them. He had shown himself a coward, and if he'd
had a tail, it would have been tucked.
	They gave him clothes, a spare ill-fitting finsuit and tight
strider sandals-but for the remainder of the flight, no one spoke to
him. The journey lasted longer than he could guess. He was given a
horn of water and purple twists of meat tough and spicy as jerky.
As the sky indigoed and the great gorges of cloud glowered a longer
red, he had plenty of time to ponder his situation.
	He carefully reviewed everything he could remember of what
the eld skyle had told him, and he explored further the remarkable
information that imbued the Foke language he had been given. He
contemplated Foke time. The gravitationally refracted colors that
banded the whole Werld turned slowly, completing a full rotation
in a span of time he estimated was equal to his sense of a century.
The Foke who survived that long were called wizan. They were the
tribe's spiritual leaders, contemplators of time, being, even question.
He knew they would orient him, but he couldn't have guessed then
how profoundly.

	Tarfeather was the nomadic home of the Foke. Thousands of
people lived there, migrating in continuous advance groups to test
other regions of the Werld for the future locales of Tarfeather. The
speed of the endless journey varied. When Carl arrived, the site was
well settled. Skyles for many kilometers around showed signs of
cultivation: grazing herds, farmland, tree homes, and the sky busy
with the movement of people and barges. The fallpaths were
distinct with activity, and he could clearly discern the network of
gravity-curved flightlanes that enmeshed the skyles.
	The band progressed toward the largest skyle, a mountain
range extending both up and down and with an encircling river
curling about the equator. The valleys were jungles, and all the
prominences and abutments that jutted away from the skyle were
naked rock.
	Closer, Carl recognized black-and-gray camouflage tents.
Bright-blue-robed figures were rushing out of one tent onto the
fallpath to meet the returning group.
	Allin had taken the lead when they entered Tarfeather,
flashing mirror signals long before Carl saw any sign of a settlement.
He saluted the squad when they approached and recounted how
Carl had been discovered and seven of the group lost.
	Carl studied their faces. They had the same racial
characteristics as the people who had found him: dark and striated
hair, broad bones, cinnamon-toned skin, and flecked, agate-banded
eyes. They were used faces, and they did not return his stare kindly.
	They said nothing directly to Carl until they helped him land-a
trickier maneuver than taking off: He stumbled with the abruptness
of the shift from glide to fall and had to be helped to his feet. It
was like stepping out of a pool after a long swim. The gravity
owned him, and he slumped along the rock path with the others to
one of the larger tents.
	The interior had the walnut smell of autumn and a soft
sheen of woodsmoke. Sheets of light hung from slit windows
in the tent roof. The long hall looked as busy as a bazaar, yet
the sound level mimed a temple.
	Carl was led swiftly as his ponderous legs could keep up
through the silky warmth, past curtained stalls of conversing
people-office, food stalls, gamerooms--till they came to a stall
with only one man in it. He was dressed in black and stood
out boldly against the intricate cloud tapestry behind him.
	The others regarded him deferentially, and Allin greeted
him as wizan. "He speaks the language, sir. Perfectly."
	"Is that so?" The wizan appeared younger than any of
them: His immaculately groomed features seemed mild as
amber.
	"Yes," Carl replied. "An eld skyle imprinted it in my
brain. Then I was sent to the Foke in a thornwing. It's the
craziest thing that's ever happened to me-'
	"Yes," the wizan cut him off, "the eld skyles are
sometimes helpful in those ways." He was seated on a
cushion, still and square as a Mayan icon. "You don't look
much like a Foke, but you are clearly human and strong-
looking at that. From where did the eld skyle take you?"
	"I'm from the planet called earth." The words felt like
tinsel in his mouth. "It existed a long time ago."
	"What position did you have in your world?"
	Carl couldn't find the words businessman or bartender
in the Foke language. "I was a trader and brewseller."
	The wizen sighed softly with disappointment.
	"He's just a dropping that knows how to talk," Allin said.
"He's not useful. I sensed that when we found. him, but the
others insisted that he be brought here. On the way, seven of
ours were killed. A zotl

jumpship. I've passed the location along and a strike force is
on the way."
	The wizan silenced him with a limp wave. "What is your
name?" he asked Carl.
	"Carl."
	"Carl, do you want to stay with us?"
	"The eld skyle sent me to you," Carl answered. "He
warned me about the zotl and gumper hogs and blood beetles
and told me that you could teach me how to survive here. I'd
really appreciate that."
	"I'm sure you would," the wizen -acknowledged. "But
our ranks are closed. There are other human communities in
the Werld. Rhene is a city where someone like you would be
much happier."
	"I would still prefer to stay here."
	"Then you must demonstrate your usefulness to the
Foke." The wizan's voice teetered on boredom. "What skills
does a trader and a brewseller have?"
can learn."
	"Tarfeather is not a school." The black bits of his eyes
drilled Carl. "Can you make plastique? Can you' ride the
fallpath? Can you even tell time?" His eyes hooded, and he
went into a rote routine: As a wizan of the Foke, I find you
unacceptable for inclusion in our ranks by reason of your
inutility-"
	"I can work," Carl objected. "I'll do labor."
	"We all work, Carl," he explained, his voice a scaly
integument. "There are no laborers. We share responsibility for
labor equally"
	"I'm sure I'm good for something." Carl didn't want to
start off his new life by thwarting the eld skyle's will: He
wanted the Foke to accept him. Allin was grinning lushly, and
Carl knew that whatever pleased Allin was no good for him.
"Is there a court of appeal?"
	"No, my review is sufficient," the wizan replied in a voice
of ravening flatness. "I order that you be taken
directly to Rhene and traded for imprisoned Foke or sold for
manufactured goods. Away-away."
	Carl let himself be dragged out of the stall. Allin strode
beside him, kicked him into a walk, and leered with
satisfaction. The blue-robed guards followed to the exit.
	"What is Rhene?" Carl asked at the doorway.
	"You speak Foke and you don't know of Rhene?" He
slapped Carl on the back and pushed him out of the wizan
tent.
	The beauty of the blued clouds and dark skyles had an
unearthliness that made Carl shiver. "Is Rhene a prison city?"
	Allin allowed himself a black laugh. "You were the reason
,my friends died, dropping. I'd just as soon imprison you as
flay and gut you. But I am a Foke. ,We don't have penalties or
prisons. Just exclusion."
	He motioned Carl toward a steep trail that mounted a
sinuous, reptilian terrain to the giant log moorings of a sky
barge. The barge was a sleek wooden craft with a needle prow
and furled black sail-fins.
	"Rhene," Allin explained, "is a zotl-built city for people-
their favorite food. You might say it's a farm. Because it exists,
we are spared the zotl hunt."
	"You said Rhene wasn't a prison," Carl reminded him.
	"It isn't," he answered.
	"Then what keeps the people inside?"
	"The people are free to come and go. But going isn't really
a hope for most of them."-He gestured at the yawn 4 purpling
sky and the skyles that cluttered space like motes of dust. "The
cloudlanes, the fallpaths, and the skyles, that is the home of the
Foke. But most of the people, in Rhene would not survive to
their next meal out here. They are content with their busy lives
in the city. The zotl androbs do most of the manual

work and the people are free to cavort with one another. The
only price they must pay is the lottery"
"I get a bad feeling from that word."
	"When the zotl need to feast, they conduct a lottery. The
one percent who lose are eaten. If you survive seven lotteries,
your name is permanently removed from the risk. Many people
find the seven percent odds of losing more attractive than
struggling for existence all the time out here. Isn't that really the
way with you?'
	They had come to the boarding ramp of the barge, where
Foke bustled to load the hold with crates of blue cabbages. The
sweet citron fragrance of the vegetable swirled in the air.
Unbidden, the thought rose to Carl's mind that those were
dream boles, a muscularly euphoric hallucinogen.
	"There are great pleasures in the Werld," Allin said with a
chill in his voice.
	"Yeah, well, where I come from, the greatest pleasure is
to be free:"
	Surprise ticked across Allin's face. He gripped Carl's beard
and shook his head once. "Then why are you so obedient to
fear?" He shoved Carl up the ramp. "Go on, get on board,
dropping."
	Carl boarded the ship and was steered by- Allin's firm
hand to a foredeck cabin. A dozen Foke sat on the benches that
extended from the hull's ribs. They were conversing and staring
out of the port visors at the scaffolding being slanted to slide
the sky barge off the mountain and into the cloudy flightlanes.
Allin and Carl sat with them until the barge jolted, tilted, and
sledded into the sky.
	"Do you know how this works?" Carl asked, after the
barge had bucked violently and rocked into the steady sway of
its cruise.
	"Don't gad me with your questions, dropping." He
swung to his feet. "Let's eat."
	Carl's first full meal was braised cloud trout on a bed of
butter-seared owlroot. He learned then that the Foke's fondest
pleasure was eating. They were magical cooks and robust eaters.
Their food was more diverse than anything he could
remember of his older life.
	That journey with Allin to Rhene lasted eighteen meals,
no two alike, each almost supernaturally savory. During the
flight, Carl learned enough about the Werld to -actually think
he might be happy in Rhene. The Foke were a dour,
hardworking people, but they were convivial when they cooked
or ate. Food, or course, was free, and all were happy to display
their culinary skills for Carl, even though he was a dropping.
	Not having Allin's reason for hating him, the Foke were
indifferent to his origin and fate: Droppings were common.
But praise among the Foke was not, and they were pleased by
his laudations of their cooking prowess. Soon he was accepted
among them.
	Between meals, people slept casually and took turns
helping with chores. Carl was started off cleaning latrines, but
after his poetic praise of Foke cuisine had won him friends, he-
was relieved of the odious chores some of the time and
allowed to work on deck.
	The drunken sky, the winds motherly with grass scents
and warm showers, powered glad feelings in him; and he
affably did whatever he was told. Also, he had time to
accustom himself to the seemingly endless depths of the
Werld. Carl had always been nervous about heights and had
avoided balcony . seats, Ferris wheels, and plane trips. But after
a while on deck, he was enthralled by the rhapsodies of
distance, and his fear dwindled.
	Knowledge came not only from what the eld skyle had
given him but also from those around him. A

kindly-face Foke physician taught him how to tell time. Units
less than a week-twenty-five meals-did not officially exist; 5,555
"weeks" equaled one full rotation of the gravity rainbow that
covered the Werld. The magnetic pole of the black hole, which
was also the Rim, never varied in relation to the Werld, so with
a compass one had a polar referent to watch the precession of
the horizon's thin colors.
	From other passengers, Carl learned that the zotl were in
firm command of the Werld, and that they allowed the Foke to
exist in exchange for their regular harvest of dream boles. The
boles sedated a large segment of the herd city's populace and
made zotl dominance easier to take and administer.
	When the glass cupolas and silver minarets of Rhene
appeared among the flamingo-tinted clouds, Carl was
comfortable with the Foke way. Even Allin seemed less hostile.
Carl had learned that Allin had been a free child-that is, he was
raised in a tribal commune, a rougher life than the family
children brought up by parents or other individuals. The Foke
who had died helping Carl were the people he had grown up
with. Carl's understanding of that resolved a lot of tension
between them.
	Rhene was a city of terraced skyles, monorails, and
geometric domes opalescent as serpents' eyes. The undersides
of these skyles were netted with nacreous flares and web lights,
and Carl's first vista of the city had an ethereal effect on him.
The air under the city glinted with the lights of individual
flyers.
	Carl had adjusted himself to his fate by this time, and he
was eager to dock. Diatom-like flyers guided the barge into a
colossal sky hangar of ribbon-contoured metal and moon-
green spotlights. The Foke's wooden ship was primitive
among the metal vessels honeycombing the dock, their shark
bodies polished to black mirrors.
	The technology amazed him. At the dock, androbs, squat
mechanical stevedores, unloaded the holds. Scooters carried people
across the wide marmoreal mall of androb-directed traffic to the
clearing pavilion. Crystal parabolas arched through twenty stories of
offices, coruscated' with elevators and jewel-lighted rampways.
	"How many people are here?" Carl wanted to know.
	"In this part of the Werld, millions." Disdain manacled Allin's
face. "This is a matter I wish to conduct as quickly as possible,
dropping, so stop gawking and keep up with me."
	Getting through the clearing pavilion was not as easy as Allin
had expected. Queues of passengers and baggage-laden androbs
clogged the waiting mall, and Allin grumbled impatiently to himself.
	The mall, like everything Carl had seen in the Werld, was lush
with natural vegetation. Green birds flitted through the trees that
lined the rampways, and waterfalls clear as wind whirred between
the levels, slapping among rockgardens where scarlet grass
shuddered in a breeze of mist and mudscents. But the tameness, the
precise order of the place, was disturbing after such a long journey
through the wild spaces.
	Carl was gaping with apprehension at this city woven into the
terrain when he noticed a woman standing at the lower level on a
path among red and blue algal pools. She was a long, coltish woman
in a black-and-coral shift. And she was staring at him.
	That was not unusual, actually, since he was ganglier and
ruddier than everyone else. But she wasn't goggling at him so much
as looking for recognition from him. A tribal crowd carrying
seedheads mounted on whip poles swept by her, blue birds flashing
about them. After they had passed, she was gone.
	Allin was seated on the androb in line ahead of

him, his concrete-colored eyes glazed over. Carl watched tiny, blue-
bottomed mandrills prowl a brake of bamboo and reminisced
nostalgically about Manhattan, where waiting in line was a way of
life. He slept awhile among the baggage on the androb behind him,
dreamed erotically of confronting Sheelagh with his new body and
of her tugging at his clothes. He woke to find himself being stripped
by coilringed metallic tentacles.
	Carl howled and writhed, and Allin's big hand clapped onto
his shoulder. "Ease up, dropping." His voice glinted with humor,
and Carl knew then something unpleasant was going to happen.
"This is your medical exam. It's required before I can sell you.'
	They were in a tiny room of flower-twined partitions, a
padded slant table, and the green glaring lens of the tentacled
ceiling. All of Carl's orifices were probed, blood was drawn from his
arm, skin scraped from his abdomen, and the hair shaved from his
face.
	He saw himself in the androb's chrome surface, and again he
didn't know himself. The face staring back at him was longboned
and pugnacious.
	Silk-textured garments tailored for his precise dimensions
emerged from a wall panel. They were a white tunic shirt, loose
black trousers, and corded leather sandals.
	Carl dressed and was lea by Allin around the blossomed
partition to a garishly lit chamber, reminiscent of a SoHo art gallery.
A group of a dozen people stared at him and began a swift
numerical exchange. He was being sold.
	The bargaining went quickly. Within moments, a bald and
sinewy little man was clasping to Carl's wrist a sturdy strap attached
to a thickly corded leash. The leash was metal-clamped to his belt.
	Allin was pleased. "You've earned Tarfeather enough fiber
cord for another counsel tent and two tree homes."
	"That much?" Carl peered into his owner's coriaceous
face. "What makes me worth anything to you? I don't have any
skills. You haven't even interviewed me."
	He looked at Carl distrustfully and then at Allin.
"Doesn't he know?"
	"You'll be taking the place of Picwah's son in the lottery"
Allin informed Carl with his pyknic leer, "as well as working as
his servant for one tenth of a cycle. After that, if you're still
alive, you're free."
	"Thanks."
	`As part of the deal," Allin added, " I promised your lord
Picwah that if you caused him any trouble I would cut off your
ears." He grinned like a wolf. "You know, of course, I'd have
traded you to the zotl themselves for a Foke. It's your fortune
that the last prisoners were taken on to Galgul before we
arrived. Farewell, dropping. Work hard."
	Picwah snapped at Carl's wrist leash. "Come on-I have
much to do."
	"Wait!" The command cracked from across the gallery
through the veils of muttering from other negotiations.
	Carl heard it and looked. Picwah didn't and kept going.
His leash jerked taut against Carl's immobility, and the scrawny
man was yanked to his haunches.
	`Are you acting up already?" he almost-screamed,
popping to his feet and glaring at Carl.
	Carl thumbed his attention to the approaching figures. Ile
woman he had seen earlier by the algal pools was rushing
across the chamber. In her wake were two blue-robed, wide-
bodied Foke.
	"A wizan," Allin noted and dutifully bowed.
	The fragrance of rose madder accompanied her as she
stepped up to Carl, her gray-streaked eyes flecked with redgold
regarding him as if his face were a mirror.
	Carl played his gaze over her oak-brown hair and

the lynx angles of her face. "Evoe," he guessed in a wishful
whisper. ,
	Surprise swung across her face. " I do know you,' she
breathed back. "But from where?"
	The guards were watching her with anxiety. "How do you
know her personal name?" one of them queried Carl.
	"My lady, you are distressed," the other said to her. "We
should go."
	She touched Carl's arm, and a blur of energy warmed
him. "Why are you here?" she asked.
	Carl held up his strapped wrist. "I've been sold." He cast a
nod to Allin. "By him."
	She looked hard at Allin. "Why are you selling him? He
looks Foke-worthy."
	Allin met her stare with a stern countenance. "He has
been wizan-appraised, my lady." The Foke warrior observed
the wizan guards' edginess, and he asked: "What has distressed
you?"
	Evoe said nothing, for she was watching Carl for what
was familiar.
	"The last of her kin, a distaff aunt, was a prisoner in
Rhene," a guard related. "We had come with the ransom to free
her. But she has already been taken to Galgul."
	That last word cracked the guard's voice. Allin nodded in
sympathy to their anxiety. "You are indeed distressed, my
lady," he said loudly to her; then, to the guards: "You must
take her to where she can rest."
	"Will you came with me?" Evoe asked Carl.
	His heart was squashed with feeling. The eld skyle had
been right about this woman-she was all the colors of waking
to him, the flesh of dreams. She wasn't shimmeringly
beautiful or vein-poundingly erotic. But her slender face
enthralled him with its waif eyes and a
puckish smile that showed small white teeth. What could he say?
He loved the melody of her features.
	The guards took her arms and she shrugged them off. "Will
you come with me?" she asked again, more urgently.
	"Yes," Carl's whole body said.
	"Lady!" Allin barked.' "We have witnesses to your distress. I
am hereby overriding your authority by Foke right for the Foke
good."
	The guards seized her. She slumped and twisted, throwing
herself against one guard for purchase and heaving the other to the
ground. With her free arm, she jabbed viperlike at the remaining
guard's face, and she was free. Her hand reached into the guard's
robe, and she came away with a pistol.
	Allin had settled into an attack crouch, and he crabbed
toward her, ignoring the gun.
	With. both hands, Carl grabbed Picwah by his shirtfront,
hoisted him into the air, and flung him at Allin.
	A knifeblade grinned in Evoe's hand. She cut the leash, and
she and Carl bolted for the chamber's exit. They ran through gold-
lighted corridors and into a transparent elevator. The lift tugged at
their tensed insides, and as the gallery level pulled off; they both
laughed with relief.
	"My name's Carl." He took her hand, and the warm electricity
was still there.
	"In my whole span, nothing like this has ever happened to me
before." Her face glowed apricot from the exertion. "How do you
know my name?"
	"The same way I know your language. They were the gifts of
an eld skyle."
	"How long have you been in the Werld?"
	"About twenty or so meals."
	The elevator stopped, and she guided Carl out by

his hand. They were on a rooftop. Clouds the color of gunsmoke
wisped overhead. Below, a laser-lit city blazed like magma.
	"Rhene," Evoe announced. "The City of Sacrifice. We can't
stay here."
	The wind was steep on the top ramp of the clearing pavilion,
and Carl was sure she was going to jump to the fallpath. His 'heart
was galloping in' anticipation. She led him instead along the curve
of the ramp in the circle of a landing pad. Dozens of glossy,
enameled flyers were parked along the perimeter.
	Evoe selected a blue-toned one and raised its blackglass
canopy. "Get in."
	The sling Carl crawled into held his weight and swiveled
wildly until he realized he, had the control grip in his left hand.
Evoe slid into the second sling, and the faceted blackglass hood
closed with a sigh from its airtight bolts. The interior was black.
Green points tapped on in the dark as Evoe activated its drive.
	"Are we stealing this thing?" Carl asked into the blackness.
	"It's a flyer," the answer arrived with a chorus of moving
control lights and audial cues, "and any citizen of Rhene may fly it."
	The canopy's blackglass phased to transparency, and Carl
watched with glittering fascination as the landing pad dropped
away and they were suddenly high over Rhene. The clearing
pavilion, he saw at once, was the city of glass towers that he had
seen from afar during his thornwing flight. In the direction toward
where he had been then, clouds folded in on themselves like the
interior of a brain.
	"That's the Cloudgate," Evoe's alto voice informed him. "It's
the only safe route through the destroyer winds to the Welkyn
where the zotl live. That's why
Rhene is here-to guard their upper Werld from the human
animals they breed in Midwerld for their food."
"I came through there in a thornwing."
	"That's about the only way through," Evoe agreed. "The
fallpath flows down. Thornwings can get down the
Cloudpath, but not up it. The only way up is a flyer. And the
zotl destroy all unauthorized craft."
	Rhene glowered below them like embers. "Where are we
going?"
	"Where no one will find us." She made some small
adjustments and leaned back in her sling.
	Skyles whirled past as their flyer swiftly found its way
through the maze of the Werld. The continuous
abrupt,changes in direction never touched them, and they
hung gracefully in their slings.
	Evoe was looking at Carl with an earnestness in her
dolphin-tinted eyes that gave him the same slick feeling as luck.
"Tell me about yourself," she requested, "so that maybe I can
figure out why I feel this way about you."
	"What way?"
	A burr of anxiety snagged her voice: "Don't you feel it?"
	He did. The eld skyle had prepared him for it, and it still
amazed him. The sublime tranquillity of a summer afternoon
prismed all his thoughts and feelings. He had been saturated
with strangeness since he had been snatched out of his former
life-and now the luster of caring emotion -welling in him, the
most natural and primal emotion of any child, seemed
strangest of all. "I'm in love."
	They laughed a lot during that flight. The tight space of
that pod seemed as big and full of promise to Carl as the
entire room of May. He told her about himself. Not
everything, of -course. He left out his balding head and flat
feet. But he told her the high

lights: St. Tim's, college, the brokerage house in Manhattan,
and the Blue Apple. He was surprised by how little there was.
And how interested she was in it.
	Evoe never finished her story. She was one and a half
cycles old and had completed many initiations. She had been
born into an ancient Foke clan with a legacy of fealties to other
clans. That meant she had spent half of her first cycle serving
and learning from various and scattered Foke tribes. She had
attained a great deal. Her most valuable lesson was learning to
surrender the leadership role she had been born to. Over the
years of her ancestral servitude, when she cleaned the lodges and
reared the children of other noble clans, she was immersed in
and fell in love with the simpleness of living. After her thrall
was over, she stayed close to that love, and she lived longer
than any other in her family. She was the first wizan in their
known history. And that had been a great humiliation to her
clan.
	Among the Foke, wizan were honored. They were
allowed to write books. But warrior leaders, chiefs, were
glorified. They alone could carry the guns smithied in the
Foke's secret armories. The two were never found together in
one person, though Chief Wizan was a popular character in
Foke myth and lore. Foke chiefs were bound by law to take the
Foke's greatest risks, and they always led in battle. None ever
lived more than half a cycle.
	Evoe suspended the telling of her story when the flyer
landed on a skyle cliff among spires of fir. The pod went black.
	"We'll send the flyer back," her soft voice said in the
darkness. "They'll only be able to trace us to here-and by the
time they do, we'll be long gone. Here, take this." She handed
him the gun she had taken from her guard. "I have one, too.
And some
naphthal pods--firebombs. I had come to Rhene armed, to free my
kin."
Carl took the gun and tucked it in his belt.
	The canopy bolts hissed open, and sharp alpine air flushed in.
Carl rolled out of the flyer and stood up among bleached grass
drooping over a whispering plunge. His eyes looked like raisins, and
Evoe sang with laughter.
	"Don't worry. I'm not going to lose you now," she said before
shoving him into space.
	They fell a hundred meters before the fallpath caught them
firmly, and with her arm around him, they rose toward clouds red
and blue as bruises. They flew through the bucketing wind a far
spell before they launched into a calm warm flow where they could
talk. The giant terrain rivered by on all sides. They kept themselves
positioned so that the dark Rim side was above them, and they
could look down into the glimmering reaches of the Eld. She
continued her story, and Carl learned about the Werld.
	Evoe had lived in Rhene for over a quarter of a cycle, and
she knew the intensities of pleasure that kept people there. The
zotl had developed the bliss collar, a -rapture device that
magnetically stimulated the limbic 'brain and wove the cellular quilt
of the body with pleasure while leaving the mind clear. Like almost
everyone in Rhene, she had worn the bliss collar, and she never
cared then that her name was in the lottery or that people she knew
had lost and been taken to Galgul.
	She had survived all seven drawings and probably would still
be wearing the collar if she hadn't witnessed a Foke attack. She saw
only the end of it, after the insurgents had already succeeded in
blasting their way through the barriers of the Well, the prison
where people were gathered before being sent on to Galgul. The
prisoners had already been freed, and she'd seen

their flyers falling down the sky away from the incandescence of
Rhene. To cover their escape, a band of Foke had stayed behind and
held off the androbs with a commandeered laser cannon.
	Evoe had stood on the cordon line with the crowd and
cheered as the attack squad of androbs was shattered by the
blinding bolts from the cannon. After the prisoners were well gone,
the Foke guerrillas dispersed. But by then, the zotl had arrived.
	She had never seen the zotl before. They came in their own
flyers, designed for their alien anatomies. Their flyers were man-
long needles that' cut through the air almost faster than seeing and
could stop or shift direction instantly. Within moments, they had
stunned all of the guerrillas still in Rhene, and they carried them up
the Cloudgate and into Galgul.
	The Foke had lost seven fighters and had freed over a
hundred prisoners. The sacrifice and the victory profoundly affected
Evoe, and shortly afterward she left Rhene and returned to the
wilds. The last half cycle, she had been traveling among the Foke
clans, living again their nomadic rituals.
	While she spoke, Evoe modified the way Carl held his limbs so
that he was more comfortable with the sensation of freefalling and
rising with the vallations of space. Foke as experienced as Evoe
could read the flightlanes in the stream curves of clouds and the
shapes of skyles. What had looked to Carl to be a mere moiling of
clouds among the suspended jumble of skyles began to take on the
continuity and direction of a terrain as she talked. He also learned to
tell at a distance the warm skyles and clouds from the cold by the
flowlines of the wind.
	Evoe guided them toward a skyle and held him by
his belt as they broke free of the fallpath with strong
bodytwists. Gravity steepened at once, and he would
have hit the approaching rock ledge with his face if
Evoe hadn't righted him at the last moment.
	They ate owlroots and slamsteaks. The slam-
steak was a large snail found on some skyles.
The Foke ricocheted the snail off the fallpath
so that it slammed back into the rocks hard enough
to break its sturdy shell. Braised and seasoned with
local herbs, it was tender as lobster and sapid as
filet mignon.
	They jumped from skyle to skyle eating as they
went and working on Carl's blundering flying skills.
When Carl had worn out his anxiety about jumping
and landing and he was familiar enough with the sky
geography to begin to see the fallpaths among
the clouds and floating mountains, they landed to
rest.
	Lying together on their backs with clouds build-
ing into great treeshapes, violet and yellow, and the
trees themselves cloudlike, their branches boiling in
the green wind, Carl was happy. Maybe it was the
first time in his life that he was happy. Or maybe
he'd just never been awake enough to notice it when
it had happened before. But he was so happy that he
could hear a song playing inside him that he'd never
heard before.
	Carl had never been musically inclined, yet that
interior melody was vivid enough for him to hum. Evoe
reached into the coral-stitched pocket of her black robe
and took out a devil's harp, a blond wood instrument
with small internal windbags and pipes. She caught his
tune and chivvied it in the wind with the rustling
branches and the hickett of tree toads. It was the first
and simplest song he had ever created, and it was

stamped with the common melodic traits of his time on
earth:
rootweave of the nearest tree. For a while, he shifted
his gaze from the jazz of her laughter-shimmying breasts
to the pointillism of blue-and-green trees-from the
shadow of pubic hair behind the hem of her chemise to
the slow mandala of -a dew-spider in the shaded grass.
Her heart bobbed like a cork.
	They touched each other at the crest of the right moment,
and silks of feeling tickled the spaces of hunger inside them.
The taste of her salt skin mingled with the power turning
within, and everything loosened, splintered, multiplied.
	When they made love, they became each other. She felt his
brimming strength, the magnetism in his bones, and she saw
herself as if through his eyes backsprawled in a ruffle of grass
and horsemint. His eyes closed, and he felt the gorging magic
filling him like light, tightening through the lens of his
awareness to the burning focus of an orgasm. The resin smell
of crushed grass spelled over them.
	Solitudes opened, and they rocked back into their own
bodies, the sex between them liquid, filling the dark gnarled
foot of the tree with a charmed, fleece odor.
	Her limbs were straggled, sticky, humming with dreams.
She held to his arms, and the glittering sounds of their bodies
and the surge of feeling in the nimbus of their flesh opened her
completely to the moment: She felt the slippery green moss
floating out of the treeroot beneath her, and the other skyles
iced with the Werld light, sun-high, swelling the tree bark,
rising the sap.
	A claret light sheened among the clouds when they came
out of each other. She had seen through him, beyond his
adamized body and past life on earth to the cryptic silence in
him. Carl didn't know how else to explain it. He felt that they
had interpenetrated each

other's souls. They had heard each other's stories-now they, felt
each other's inner life.
	He remembered the eld skyle telling him about Evoe, and
how she would be mated to him by the very molecular nature
of his body. And he was at peace. He knew this woman truly
loved him just for him. She lay across his warm chest, and the
smell of her hair reminded him of rain. How could the eld
skyle have known? Was it telepathy, that it had used to select
Evoe for him? The moment was too wonderful for him to
think that thought through. The light was ripe, the rock
shadows somnolent. Later, he would wonder why he had
accepted his new life so mindlessly. Several lizardwings flicked
through the plum sky like meteors.
	They roamed for what seemed a lifetime. The skyles fed
them and the fallpath carried them. They, visited clan sites and
mingled with the Foke, but they never went to Tarfeather. There
was too much else to see for them to return to the moving
capital and perhaps provoke Allin and his clan's wizan with the
fact of Carl's freedom. They had sentenced him to slavery,
though he bore no grudge against them; their rejection, after all,
had sent him to Rhene and Evoe. He was not eager' to confront
them again.
	Among the wet, cloudbroomed skyles in a far corner of
the Werld, they met a wizan clan that specialized in Werld
knowledge. They were the closest thing to scientists Carl had
met among the Foke. They had no hardware, none of the
apparatus he associated with science. They were not technicians.
They were, rather, historians, pooling and recording the
knowledge of droppings like himself What they learned was
preserved in books that they published with their own presses.
	Next to food, the written language was adored by
the Foke. Everyone read and wrote, and each clan had its own
press. Because of the difficulty of obtaining materials, only
wizan were freely published. Others had to work hard for the
right. Religious tomes and cookbooks were the most common
publication. But Foke were also fond of journals and treatises.
	Carl and Evoe met the scientific wizan at the Cloudwall.
That was far across the Werld, on the blue side, at the apparent
perimeter. The clouds piled up there into a virtual wall that no
one had ever penetrated because the Werld literally ended there.
The wizan had gathered in this place not so much to study the
Cloudwall as to stay hidden from the zotl. They were
compiling a New History of the Werld, and they needed the
obscuring mists of the Cloudwall to cover their operation.
	Carl was surprised by how much the wizan knew of the
universe. The Werld was self-contained, yet generations of
contact with droppings dating back to their own origins one
hundred and fifty cycles ago had revealed a fairly accurate
depiction of the cosmos. They were happy to see Carl, for he
spoke their language and could more easily relate what he had
learned. There was, however, little he could add to their
understanding.
	The wizan knew the universe was closing up. They were
the last human age; and that knowledge spurred their mystical
pursuits: The meaning of life, for the wizan, was meaning itself-
the discovery or, when necessary, the invention of meaning.
They believed that ail creation was light and light's gradients,
and so all beings, to them, were equal. The Werld was clement
enough and big enough to sustain this philosophy. Foke
communities made up the rules they chose to live by, and
individuals unhappy with the collective -were free to leave and
find or start cummunities more to their liking.
The wizan were appalled by Carl's stories of earth:

Old age, .disease, 'prison, and human-slaughtering war were
horrors alien to -the Foke way. In the telling, Carl amazed
himself at having endured life on earth. Compared to the
Werld, even with the zotl and gumper hogs, -earth was a
synonym for hell.
	Among the wizan, living from meal to meal in their
simple routines, unashamed of time, Carl was grateful to be
free of his past, all the incomprehensions and indecisions of
existing at the ass end of earth's most violent millennium. He
was free. He had been delivered from a madness that he had
once thought was all there was. And now here he was, in a
world of secret places, bonded to a woman he loved. Life was
good:
	Evoe, too, was caught up in Carl's happiness. Her life
since meeting him had been a continuous surprise of feeling.
She had loved before and had reared children, but she had lost
them all to zotl and the wild things of the Werld. Death's
indirections had long ago liberated her from love-until now.
Black memory faded before the brilliance of her lover's smile.
He made her feel strong with life. His touch pried her loose
from herself, and his embrace carried her loneliness. She would
die before she would let herself lose him.
	Carl and Evoe's time among the sapient and gentle wizan
of the Cloudwall left them peaceful and not as guarded as the
dangers of the Werld demanded. During their long journeying,
they had witnessed both the wonders and the hostilities of the
skyles. Sickness was practically unheard-of, as the eld skyle had
foretold, and no one aged beyond his full maturity. Yet the
Werld's population was relatively scant. The treacheries of the
fallpath crippled and killed many Foke all the time. Certain
magnetic skyles were renowned for the healing of bones, and
Carl had spent some time there himself with a snapped wrist.
Other skyles, especially the larger ones, were lethal with the
presence of preda
tors. But the greatest risk to Foke life was the zotl raid.
	The zotl used the radar in their nimble needlecraf to fly
through the clouds that spiraled the length of the Werld. The only
safe place for Foke along the Cloudriver was beside the Wall. The
wizan told Carl that gavitational fluctuations along the Wall had
destroyed many a zotl craft, and the paineaters rarely flew there
now.
	When Evoe and Carl left the wizan, they traveled on the fog-
tattered fringe of the Wall until they came to where it joined the
Cloudriver and they had to move inward. No Foke could travel in
the Cloudriver for very long: Vision was an empty lilac-gray, and
one had to gauge the fallpath by feel alone. Landing anywhere was
out of the question. Not only were those cloudforest skyles evil
with bizarre predators, but there was no sure way to catch the
fallpath. The visual clues were not there. One had to jump into the
wind and pray.
	So Carl and Evoe stayed above the clouds, looking for a well
of clear space and lighted skyles that tunneled through the
Cloudriver. The fringe was a tricky place, since the wind could
suddenly shift and smother the fallpath and nearby skyles with
blinding clouds.
	Just that was happening to them, as it had happened
numerous times before. Cauliflowering clouds loomed out of the
Cloudriver, billowing purple and gold. Around them, rain
girandoled, a gray halo sheeting the flowlines of the fallpath and
smoking over the skyles.
	They soared toward a flower-bright skyle where heat
shimmered in the cup of a small valley. When Carl glanced back to
gauge the advance of the cloudfall, he saw them, and it was already
too late.
	They, had hidden in the Cloudriver and had approached with
the blossoming clouds until they were close enough to strike. Carl
thought in that first instant

that they were Foke. They were human, and all six wore finsuits.
But in the next instant, he realized they were moving too fast for
Foke. He noticed the black thrusters on their backs the same
moment Evoe spotted them.
	Without hesitation, she unsnapped a naphthal pod from the
belt under her robe and flung it toward them. The fireball caught
one of the flyers head-on and splashed with the impact, searing two
others. All three whirled out of control and spun flapping flames
into the cathedral buttes of a skyle.
	The remaining three were already- too close for another
naphthal pod, and Carl unholstered his gun. He never even had the
chance to aim. Evoe glanced about and saw a steep-banking plunge
in the fallpath below them. She grabbed Carl in both of her arms
and pulled him close.
	"Carl, I love you," she said, and her face was a blaze of feeling,
her soul leaning against the opal light in her eyes. "Stay alive."
	He burbled the beginning of some reply, and she twisted him
about, tripped him with a swing of her legs, and toppled him into
the drop of the fallpath that sheared away from them. Carl was too
clumsy to stop or even slow his fall. He watched Evoe distance
away.
	The three flyers were almost on her. One of them peeled off
to pick Carl up, and Evoe drew her gun and fired several rounds,
her body wrenching. with the coil of each shot.
	Then the two flyers were on her, and she was bowled over,
snagged by their grapnels, and swung away.
	Carl jerked about to see his pursuer rolling lifelessly in a cloud
of his blood. Trying to brake himself, Carl went into a roll. He
tumbled head over heels in a
freefall and was soon lost among the skyles whipping past him like
freights.
	Panic hardened to clarity, and he utilized the techniques Evoe
had been teaching him to slow a fall. He pulled his finsuit sleekly
against him before carefully unfurling its fins to cup the air. His fall
relaxed to a float, and he swam toward the contraflow that always
paralleled a fallpath.
	- The contraflow was there, and he swooped back toward Evoe.
He swung around the obstructing skyles in time to see the two
pirates carrying her limp body away.
	He'd lost his gun in the fall, but that's not why he hung back.
Emerging from the Cloudriver was the black chevron of a
jumpship. He watched helplessly as they boarded and the jumpship
slinked back 'into the colossal clouds.
	Carl raged. His blood sang with despair, and he howled at the
Cloudriver, dashing in and out of its blankness hoping to be taken
by the pirates and joined again, at least in fate, with his Evoe.
	They were gone.
	Carl was alone, staring into the long emptiness of his life.
	In the end, there was only one place for him to go. If Evoe
was imprisoned in Rhene, he couldn't hope to free her. And if she
was in Galgul, an army couldn't save her. At the end of his hysterics
and his heroic and fatalistic strategies, only one hope remained. The
eld skyle.
	He journeyed eldward, stopping only for the sustenance he
needed to travel. His sleep-frayed alertness went into rage-drive,
automatically guiding him through the brightening heights toward
the feathery radiance of the Welkyn. Only after he saw the
rainbows threading

the glass minarets of Rhene did he seek a brambly covert and sleep.
	He nightmared Evoe's abduction and woke sick with anguish.
His pain led him finally to the slow whorl of the Gate, the down-
moving fallpath that was the only entrance to the Welkyn. Claws of
frustration tore his insides as he circled the vast area, hunting a way
up the gravity slope.
	Carl lay spraddled in a field of golden grass among bells of
green flowers, charred inside from his thwarted approaches: His
grimaced mind was contemplating the madness of entering Rhene
alone for a flyer when he saw a brown tumbleweed rolling toward
him across the meadow.
	Its tangled form unwrapped as it approached, wobbling into a
wreath of tufted vines, and finally stopped ten paces away and
lifting to its full stature. It was a thornwing, a crumpled mass of
thistly, snarled twine with a tiny hooked head at the crest of its
amorphous shape. Long talons flexed on the ends of its two
thickest vines. By the bright-green scar that creased its back, Carl
knew it was the thornwing that had carried him and that Allin had
wounded.
	"How did you find me?" Carl asked with a jubilation that sat
him up. "How could you know?"
	It stared back with the dark clarity of a shoeshine.
	As Carl stood up, one of its arm-thick vines rose above the
golden grass. Carl went over to it and let it coil itself about him. His
feet eased o$' the ground as the creature hugged him to itself and
began its loping run. The golden grass blurred beneath them, and
they leaned upward against the air.
	The gold-and-blue meadow pulled back to a glint near the top
of a ravine-haggard skyle as they caught the lift of an outward-
Fund fallpath.
	The Cloudgate's iridescent clouds filled half the
visible Werld, a vast sea anemone of thunderheads flicking lightning
near its black mouth. They flew directly for that center. Below and
behind them, skyles sparkled like charms, bright with the delicate
and luminous structures of Rhene. Jumpships and flyers dusted the
vast interstices with the continual flow of their movement.
	The thornwing rolled, and Rhene slipped from sight. The air
went cool as ether, and Carl saw only cliffs of stormcloud
splintered with lightning. He stilled himself, awaiting guidance
from an inner voice, a telepathic link with the thornwing or the eld
skyle that was guiding it.
	Nothing.
	Its body shuddered with the strain of its flight. The rush of
wind strengthened, a wind blue with the scent of lightning. And in
the distance, the howling began.
	They slashed in and out of the clouds, and Carl closed his eyes
against the wind-teasing sight. The cry of the wind sharpened to a
screech. He knew by 'that sound of ripping metal that they were at
the neck of the Cloudgate where the shear winds were closest to
becoming a garroting whirlpool.
	The sound of the screaming winds sluicing through their
arteries of gravity knotted in Carl's brain with the struggle of the
thornwing. It was heaving itself upward through the soldering cold
like a salmon.
	By arching his head, Carl could see its head, the black
diamonds of its eyes clasped with intensity. His insides cramped
with the joltiness of the flight, stalling before the metallic shriek of
the Cloudgate.
- A jumpship slid by fifty meters away, its engines spinning flames
like a furnace. The thornwing twisted and unsprang into a mighty
lurch, and Carl's heart almost pulled free of his ribs. The devil
whistle of the

wind muted as they caught the wake of the jumpship's ascent.
	The thornwing hurtled with acceleration, riding the drag
wind of the large craft. Its grip slackened with its acceptance of the
lift, and Carl slid low enough in its coiled grip to see beyond the
skeletal frame of the thornwing to the vista looming ahead.
	The clouds on all sides brailed into azure radiance, and the
whirlpool of the tearing winds opened into a luminous cornucopia.
The jumpship tipped away, and they caught the drift of a fallpath
through the bright ring of the Cloudgate and into the glare of the
Welkyn.
	Far off along the wheel of Carl's sight, black spheres clotted
the spaces among the skyles. That was Galgul. The atmosphere
around it was soiled with the vapors steaming from the seams of
the City of Pain.
	The blood banging in his skull drummed louder with the
thought that Evoe could already be in the alien city, suffering. His
tension was conveyed to the thornwing, and its grip squeezed more
snugly. The charge in the air from their passage through the
Cloudgate flickered bluely on the thorntips of the creature,
crackling as it spun away from Galgul, strong as a shout.
	Carl had known from the instant he recognized the thornwing
that it would take him to the eld skyle that had reshaped his life,
and his soul was a ferment of questions, rage, and pain. But. the
Welkyn calmed him.
	The silvery light smashing against the featherbraided clouds
was entirely diferent from the dusky cloud towers of Midwerld.
Rainbows sheeted the spaces between skyles, and even the
undersides of the forested asteroids were bright with ambient light.
	The return journey to the eld skyle turned his thoughts back
to his first flight through the Welkyn. He had been smallminded
then, unready for the marvelous, a fool of the unexpected. And he
saw then that in
his despair for Evoe he had almost wholly returned to his
clangorous selfishness. That insight dispelled his anguish, and he
returned to his staring senses.
	Carl hung in the thornwing's sky alert as a hawk, studying the
wilderness of skyles drifting by All at once, vision jumped. His
whole body flinched, though their flight was smooth. He didn't
understand what he'd experienced, until it happened again some
long while later. While he was following the forest pattern of a
skyle, it vanished in an eyeblink and he was seeing a new panorama.
He hadn't passed out. He had passed through.
	A word trembled into his awareness. Lynk. He'd heard the
word before . in conversation with wizan. Lynks were corridors
that connected far-apart points in the Werld. Midwerld had few
lynks, and that's why Carl hadn't thought much of it before. The
languageinstilled knowledge informed him that the Welkyn became
more and more populated with lynks near the eld. The topmost
lynks were the ones of the eld skyles used to plant their spores in
other universes, for the outmost lynks connected with the cosmic
stream through the center of the ring singularity. But here in the
Welkyn, the lynks interconnected. Somehow the thornwing knew
how to find the lynks that would take them to one specific eld skyle
among the millions.
	Not long after this understanding, Carl recognized the dolmen
slabs of rock squaring the shape of the eld skyle that had re-created
him. The thornwing dangled him out over the dragon-long lake, and
he saw himself cliff-faced, bearded and rugged as a Viking in the
water's slick surface before it dropped him.
	The water was hot. It seared his eyeseams and earholes and
stung his lips. He held his breath and curled into an upward stroke.
But he wasn't rising. The

water that he remembered as being firmly buoyant was pressing him
down.
	His held breath went stiff in his throat and skewered the back
of his mouth. He retched with the impulse to breathe, his arms and
legs flailing for the air. But down he went. And soon after the
glaring pain in his eyesockets vapored into nervelight, the last of his
breath spurted out of him and the hot fluid of the skyle pierced his
body.
	His horror squealed with pain. All sensation, every pinpoint
cell of him, squeezed out its agony. And he went dead.
	Nothing.
	Then darkness healing to the darkest blue.
	"Welcome back, Carl," the solemn voice of the eld skyle
sounded through him. Its familiarity struck him alert in the deaf-
and-dumbness.
	" I see you've changed a great deal within yourself," it noted,
and Carl gleamed with the affection he heard there.
	"Eld skyle?" Carl thought with all the mental power he could
focus through his dead-stillness.
	"Not so loud."
	"Sorry" Carl responded reflexively. "Eld skyle--am I glad to
see you."
	"Because you think I can help you recover your beloved Evoe-
-is that right?"
	"Can't you?"
	"Of course. That's why I had you returned to me. I am, I told
you, a five-space consciousness. I know your needs better than you
do."
	Carl felt like a lab animal, floating in stillness, stripped to the
flatness of his life. He glowed with relief. "It's good to be back. But
I can't stay long. Evoe's been taken away from me by the zotl. They
could be pain-sowing her now"
"Not yet. But soon."
	"Eld skyle-please, help me." Carl's desperation flared before
the blankness of his' suspension quashed it.
	"I need you, too, Carl."
	The absurdity of that thought dumbfounded Carl. "For what?
You're a five-space consciousness."
	"But I can't move in three-space. You must move for me."
	Carl hung silent, becalmed with curiosity.
	"I need your full and absolute cooperation in this venture." Its
voice went still as the hum of an electrical storm. "You do indeed
have free will, Carl Schirmer. And if you misuse it now, you could
destroy a world. Your world."
	Carl missed two beats. "Earth?"
	"Then you do remember earth? It certainly remembers you.
ZeeZee thinks of you quite often. Your abrupt departure has had a
profound effect on him. You recall, he was a scientist. Well, what
spoor you left behind before coming here has forced him to some
very cutting conclusions."
	"Zee-" Carl's soul squirmed. "That's the past, eld skyle. I need
your help now, with Evoe"
	"You're also frequently in Caitlin Sweeney's thoughts," the eld
skyle continued, heedless of Carl. "You were her friend, her one
real friend, lost devilishly, taken in an ungodly way into the
Unknown. Her drink has gotten the best of her now, and the Blue
Apple is about to be closed. Sheelagh can't run it without you."
	Those names jolted Carl like blows. "I don't want to go back
to them. What are you talking about?"
	"You are going back, Carl. I need something, and I want you
to get it for me."
	"What is it?"
	"Three point five tonnes of pig manure."

	A zest of levity sparkled through -Carl. "Three point five
tonnes of pig manure," he echoed.
	"Yes, Carl. That is the medicine I need to survive. My ecology
is off. I've been toxifying for over a century now, and you're the
first one to come through me with the chance of helping me. I need
to introduce a certain kind of organism, a bacterium, that will
redress my biokinesis and stop my body's degradation. That
organism does not exist in the Werld. But it does on earthin pig
manure."
	'And Evoe?"
	"If 'you get me the pig manure, I'll help you get her back from
the zotl."
	"There's not enough time."
	"No, Carl. You are wrong. Here in the Werld, there is all the
time there ever was. I have the means to return you to earth for as
long as is necessary, then bring you back here in only moments of
Werld time."
	Carl's mind prickled with thoughts. "Why are you telling me
all this about pig manure now? Why didn't you just send me for it
when I first arrived?"
	"And not introduce you to Evoe? Risk your staying on earth
and leaving me here alone, sick and dying? No, I had to be sure you
would return." `
	-In the gust of the moment, all emotion cooled in Carl. He
went calm as a storm-eye. Maybe the eld skyle had shifted his blood
chemistry, he thought.
	"Blood physics," the eld skyle corrected. "Chemistry is
molecule-size physics. Biology is human-size physics. Astronomy is
galaxy-size physics."
	"Okay-okay. Are you jerking me around or not?"
	"If I were not modulating your blood physics you'd be
hollowed out with horror now"
	"Try me."
	"Don't tempt me."
	A kelpy feeling wavered in Carl's stomach, hurry
ing toward nausea. "Stop it," Carl cried. "You've made your
point."
	The axle of calm returned, and the' queasiness passed.
	Unhampered by emotion, Carl's fatefulness looked
geometric. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.
	"Listen to me very carefully," the voice responded darkly.
"You will be endowed with powers more subtle and direct
than anything your kind have known. Consider this: Where
has everything come from? The calcium in your bones, the
oxygen in your brain? All the nuclei of your body more
complex than hydrogen were forged in the thermonuclear
furnaces of stars that twinkled ten to the ninth years before you
were born. And the hydrogen of those ancient stars and all the
subnuclear particles that exist everywhere in the universe-where
are they from?"
	'"Me Hamptons. What do I know?"
	"They are remnants of the most violent event of all--the
gravitational collapse at the beginning of time. The radiation
universe, to which your body and' mine belong is the shed skin
of a living process bigger than universes. What you know as
inertia is the most direct physical link you have with this
metareality."
	"And I thought I was an orphan."
	"Have you ever thought about inertia? Few humans have,
and then only briefly. There isn't much for a human of your
time to think. The best minds of your history had only begun
to suspect that inertia reflects the profound unity of the
cosmos. What keeps matter at rest or in uniform motion in
the same straight line unless some external force acts on it?
When you take a hairpin turn, what is the force that pulls you
to the side? Your scientists believed it was all the distant
matter in the universe constraining movement: The Ail acting
on the Part."

"What has this got to do with Evoe or pig manure?" 'As a
scientist of your time, Niels Bohr,' said: A great, truth is a truth
whose opposite is also a great truth.' The Part can act on the
All. Here in the Werld there are beings, far from human, who
have mastered inertial principles much as your species
controlled electromagnetic laws. They are Rimstalkers, and, as
their name implies, they dwell in the Werld's dark zone,
Rataros, near the Rim. They are the ones, as my allies, who will
provide the technology for our venture."
"Okay, already. Give me the details."
	"They will give you a portable lynk that you will use to
transport the manure here, to me. The thornwings will help
me distribute it. The lynk they will give you is nine centimeters
long, five wide, and two thick. Very easy to hide. Bury it in the
mounds of manure. It will take ten weeks to inertially convert
three point five tonnes of manure, and during that time you
must protect it. The lynk won't be vulnerable to your fellow
humans. It has a field projector in it that will make it
impenetrable to all human devices. But the zotl have a
radiation technology sophisticated enough to disrupt the field
and destroy the lynk." .
	"There are no zotl on earth," Carl told the eld skyle.
	"There will be while you're there. The inertial displacement
of your lynk will almost certainly be detected by the zotl scanner
in Galgul. Your lynk, for the ten weeks that it is operating, will
be an open corridor between the Werld and earth. Not just zotl
can follow it to earth but any of the creatures here in the Werld
who might accidentally pass through the Werld's lynk maze."
	"Isn't that a bit risky for earth and the four billion like me
there? I mean, the zotl have needlecraft and laser cannon-and
they eat us. Isn't there some othersafer-way to get your pig
manure?"
	"The, danger is greater even than the zotl," the eld skyle said
gloomily. "Your body carries the spore that brought you here. If
enough of your blood is spilled, you could contaminate the entire
world. You'd also probably destroy me. I couldn't stop the spore
from collapsing millions of -people to light. Millions of collapsed
lives inertially trained on me! Their light would smother me. I gag
just thinking about it."
	"This whole thing sounds unwise to me. I could cut -myself
shaving and infect a continent."
	"Don't shave. Nicks are dangerous. The lynk is designed to
control only trace quantities of spore, like the cubic centimeter of
blood normally lost in a bowel movement. Any more is dangerous.
But you can be careful. And remember, you are adamized. Your
hemorrhoids are gone, the capillaries in your nose are stronger, and
the occlusion of your teeth is so clean you'll never bite yourself
again."
	"That's not enough. It's too risky."
	"I have no other foreseeable chance of surviving my sickness,"
the eld skyle admitted in a woeful tone. "I need this inclusion. And
you're my only way to get it. You must help me, Carl."
	"And expose the earth to maneating zotl and your deadly
spore? No way."
	"You'll be armored, and the armor will be fitted with a device
that will activate only if you are mortally wounded. Then, in less
than a millionth of a second, you will be collapsed to a point
smaller than an electron."
	"And that's supposed to make me feel okay about going
back?" A clutchful of emotion squeezed Carl, and he felt anguish,
not for himself but for everyone else he would be damning if he
failed. "Won't you just help me with Evoe and leave the earth
alone?"
	"Even if I were indifferent to my survival, I can't help you by
myself. The Rimstalkers have the weapons

that you need to confront the zotl, and they won't give them to
you. They are repaying me an old debt, and it is a rare favor from
them. I would not waste it in a mere act of altruism. If you won't
help me, I can't help you. I'm sorry, Carl."
	Through a spell of sinewed time, Carl struggled with the
thought of endangering the earth, until memories of Evoe in the
claret light of Midwerld swarmed him. And-with trepidation
clanging in him-he decided to gamble the entire human race against
Chaos for the love of a woman.
	A shriek, a scream, a shout of submission; a music
	of horror was his reply. But it was muffled in the silken
	chords of his suspended body, and what he mentally
focalized was: "How do I handle the zotl?" 	-
	"Your armor is built around a light lance," the eld skyle
responded with an alacrity spurred by gratitude. "The lance
conducts every range of light, from visible luminescence in all colors
through bolts of lightning to gravity waves. And its use will be
inbuilt into your brain. You'll be able to fly and maneuver more
deftly than needlecraft. And the lance also carries inertial pulses
that can pierce and destroy anything. The zotl have no defense
against it."
	"How will I get the manure?" Carl asked, the clockwork of his
fate clicking with logic. "I'll need money to buy and warehouse the
stuff:"
	"You'll have unlimited funds. With the lynk and the light
lancer armor, you will receive a third and final artifact, an
interfacing magnetic plate=-an imp. It looks identical to a charge
card, only it's pure white: Insert it into any bank computer system
and you will be credited with large sums of real capital. The imp
will also serve as your lynk-monitor. When something malefic of
the Werld passes through the lynk to earth, the imp will use a tone
to alert you. You must respond at once to
prevent the infestation of your planet. Use your light lance to
exterminate whatever comes through."
"And if the authorities catch on to me?"
	"You must be discreet. The power in your hands will be a
great temptation. You must resist the urge to use your powers for
personal gain. That will only further endanger Evoe and the security
of your planet. For the ten weeks that the lynk will be inertially
converting the payload, you must try to lie low. We will be out of
direct contact. You will be on your own. lf you fail, there is nothing
I can do to save you--or Evoe."
	"I won't fail," Carl insisted, though his insides were a vortex
of anxiety.
	"Good. Then I have one last strand of advice for you. Forget
your name. Don't use it."
	"What'll I call myself?"
	"Make up an unusual name. Something with wit, perhaps, but
something obviously unreal, partaking of the anonymity of the
archetypes. Why? If you have any dealings with your fellow humans
,and they believe you are fundamentally no diferent from them, they
will try to take your power. They may succeed. After all, your
weapons are just artifacts. And that would ruin the whole venture. I
advise you to stay unknown, nameless or myth-named. Hide in your
armor if necessary. You will be surprised how comfortable light
lancer armor is.
	"But what'll I tell people who ask for my name?"
	"In the twentieth of a cycle that you've lived in the Werld,
have you ever pondered your newness and why you are so unlike
you used to be?"
	"teen."
	"You admire your hairy scalp, the sharper definition of your
musculature, your keener mind. But who was that bald, podgy,
unaware self you lost--and where did it go?"

	The pause expected a reply. "I was converted by you. You
extracted my defects and built me up again."
	"I ate you, absorbed your inertia, the substance of your place
in the cosmos. And I excreted you. Your perfection is my waste.
You are toxic to me. You are made of my sludge, animated by my
own inertial resonance my pleasure-at the invigorating taste of your
old self, its wholeness, its place inside the flow, one hundred and
thirty billion years deep in the life of the universe. You are just the
shade of that orgasm. The real you has been nutritively dispersed
throughout the five-space range of my being. Carl is gone. And the
you that will be returning to earth is not, at the core of things,
human. Your inertia is unearthly. You belong to the Werld. And the
Werld will be much with you. Remain aloof from the humans. Use
a name that will bolster your solitude."
	Carl hung mute in the staring blankness. He was nothing. He
was just the urge of his senses folded within the mighty power of
the eld skyle. He wasn't even human.
	`A name will be provided," the eld skyle said. "It is best that
you not think too deeply now. What I have told you has been
imprinted in your brain and will be available as you need it. Skills
will, come with the weapons. All you need is within you."
	"You could be a priest."
	"In a moment, I will drop you through a lynk that falls the
length of the Werld. It empties into the black depths of Rataros.
Endure the journey and learn. Few humans, Foke, or droppings
have, witnessed the mystery of the Rimstalkers. Glad- fortune to
you, Carl."
	Carl had no opportunity to wonder then why the eld skyle
called him Carl after the spiel about not being Carl, though shortly
the question of his identity would
change the world. At that moment, however, he was mindless,
jolted by an abrupt plunge.
	He was no longer hanging in a blue void but falling, tumbling,
flying toward a waterdrop of light. The opening irised closer, and
he shot out into the silverhot mountain-shouldering spaces of the
Welkyn. His throat unclenched, and the streaming air filled his
lungs.
	Whales of river-glistening skyles sailed past and then the
choked blackness was over him again. The no-world endlessly
unwound
	Midwerld's violet shadow-eagled clouds flung by and the
sudden black again.
	The blackness was big as a planet. Carl stopped moving. He
was standing in the absolute black, breathing shallowly to hear
through the darkness. Noises shadowy as music stared at him from
all directions..
	Sparks like fangs winced nearby, and Carl jumped. He Was
naked and cold with fear. The sparks vipered around him. His feet
shuffled, feeling the ground and sensing a firmness without texture.
	"Hello?" he said, and his voice was an astral thinness in a vast
space.
	An echo seesawed around him: "Lo.-lo-lo..."
	The snaky lights jagged closer, and by their illumination, Carl
glimpsed garish images, torrid shapes, coal-glinting like black
flames.
	The fire-slinky forms edged nearer; and the air smelled baked.
The animal in Carl was running, but he knew that any sudden move
would be hurtfully, fatal. He knew with the clarity of his
imprinting that he was already seized.
	The monstered dark around him were the Rimstalkers, the
alien smiths that in a blaze of blackness were forging his weapons.
And the skills that went with them. His life was to be subdued to
his weapons, to the

patience in all things. That thought came through him as the air
went womb-hot and the circle of nightshapes rushed inward.
	Worm-gut moistness mashed Carl, and he couldn't move or
breathe. A dragonish odor of burned clay shook him. The gluey
gouts of writhing muscle that gripped his body pulsed like a fever,
and he went into a glide.
	The cindered smell of something broken stung him awake. He
was blind. For one moment, he sensed the geometry of his body,
gaunt and clear as a diamond, filled with transparency, the
willingness of light, but held in blackness, replete. He was a thing,
waiting to be filled with his own light. He was a purpose and not a
will.
	The blackness wrenched away, and Carl was launched into a
wilderness of stars. The brute force of light assaulted his brain, and
a galactic vista burst open before him.
	Welts of brilliance swelled against the emptiness of space, and
as his eyes adjusted he saw the welts were clouds of stars-galaxies.
As fast as a lazy thought, he vaulted toward one feathery wheel 'of
light and arced through lanes of radiance and bands of star-chipped
dark.
	A yellow star hurtled closer, and the motes of planets about it
caught the light in glints. One glint flashed to a shard and went
filmy blue as it marbled into view.
	With the memory of Evoe and their life inside a sunset that
never knew night, Carl opened himself to his fall. With the weight
of winter in his heart, he fell to earth.
Alfred Omega

	I went down to Chinatown today for some dim sum and saw
a Kwan Yin temple defaced with graffiti: NO BUDDHA! KILL GOD! So I
went inside and looked around. The place was empty and cluttered
with trays of spent incense and shelves of offerings to the Goddess.
I sat at an offering table and wrote this poem:

NO BUDDHA only a statue, gold paint, wood, and a
visage calm as a face in a womb-only incense smoke
unwrapping in silence, a movement between a ghost
and nothingness.

	Ever try to write a story? Notice how the characters get out
of hand almost at once? That's because they partake not only of our
imagination but also of our will.

	Regrets and expectations. That's all I am when I'm not
writing. And when I do write, I am the thing the stories come
through. I am less than myself and my characters more than me.
	My science fiction novel, Shards of Time, did pretty well for
a first novel. A lot of people read it. It was nominated for a Nebula
Award, and I had chances to talk with large groups about my ideas.
But I couldn't get them to believe. My ideas were just ideas. No one
really thinks ghost holes are real. Or that a man could fall into one
and appear elsewhere, anywhere, even as far away as the end of
time. Perhaps I am mad. My idea for skylands is based on a flagrant
interpretation of gravitational geometry. I think I answered the
meteorology of the Werld correctly, if my hunch about gravity
vacuoles in the cosmic black hole are reasonable. But these are
trivialities. To believe that Carl has gone to this place-that is
madness.
	My insanity is really that I don't know if I am mad or not.
Reality is an open mystery, and I've closed myself off too long with
my ideas and emotions. If I have to go mad to understand what
happened to Carl, I won't regret it. Ignorance is worse than
madness.

Where grief meets hope we are all ghosts of our
blood, limbs of the wind, unknown to ourselves.

	Just as lines of force end nowhere, my own connections are
wider than metrics. I am not imbedded in space. I am not flowing
through time. I am spacetime. And more. For spacetime is not
faithful to the quantum principle. I won't expound on
geometrodynamics here except to say that I belong not to spacetime
but to
superspace, the reality "below" the Planck distance (10-'cm) that
projects the manifest world we live in.
	At the level of superspace, the gravitational collapse that
began and will end our universe is continuing now, seething
everywhere as everything. Lines of force nowhere end, so the Field
is here with me. Even in the void between galaxies, virtual pairs of
positive and negative electrons, mu mesons, and baryons are
continually being created and annihilated. Created by what? By the
Field-the pregeometry underlying spacetime. It is here, right here
where you are. You are made of it. You are it. The point of
departure. The metric elasticity of the vacuum energy. You are
nothing becoming everything.

KILL GOD with the dead of night and the
wound of dawn becomes your wound.
Lack leads the way in.

	I rest my life on the darkness. I lay down my soul. I am
nothing.
	Last month, I was arrested. I hadn't paid rent or bills for three
months, and one day the police came. I was inspelling when they
arrived. They thought I was in a coma. So I was taken to a hospital
and from there I was brought here to this narrow bed in this empty
room. They say I'm crazy. I've tried to explain about inspelling and
how the mind is a condensation of the Field. But my explanations
do sound like madness.
	I don't know yet why this has happened to me. But the
knowledge is here somewhere. The knowledge is always here. Like
inertia, holding us in place, keeping us whole.
	I'm sure my imprisonment will end soon. I sense an ending
that will clarify all beginnings. I tease the

guards and staff with a cartoon personification I've begun doodling
everywhere: Alfred Omega, a voltlegged imp with with powers
strong as a god's.
	Look, I tell them-I tell you-there are ghost holes all around us.
And inside us! They are carrying us down the years. And as we go,
anything can happen.
	Living in the world, life is home,
death is life
having its way with us, and pain is
the piece of our mind we give
	back.
-excerpts from The Decomposition Notebook by Zeke
Zhdarnov

	Quills of stratus clouds glowed red in the purple sky, and
several meteors flicked over the streetlighttrellised skyline of
Ridgefield, Indiana. From the toolshed on the knolly backland of
his farm, Gareth Brewster could see across the dark lumpy hills to
the town's business center. He worked there in a bank as the credit-
card manager. And at the end of the day, he liked to walk out to
the toolshed on the grassy hummock and look at the bright amulet
of the city.
	Gareth had been doing that for years. now. But this one night
was somehow like no other. The ambered horizon beneath the last
sliver of the hatched moon mesmerized him. The wind smelled of
the meadows-and something new, a thin line of acrid burning. At
first, he thought that was .the industry at Gary, and he fulminated
mentally about writing the environmental board .... His thoughts
stilled. The wind wasn't blowing from Gary.
	The brittle stink blew louder, and Gareth turned to follow its
direction. He looked up at the glassy stars
saw another needle of meteor light-and waded through the long
grass after the scent. It thickened to a vile billow near the
woodshed. The door was slightly ajar, and the grass leading to it
from the road was recently pressed down. He stared to see if there
was a fire. Not seeing smoke or flames, he turned and jogged back
across the feld to his house.
	His wife was in the kitchen. He waved as he passed and went
straight to the garage. When he came out with a shovel and a
lantern, she had the window open.
	"What are you doing, honey?" she asked.
	`An animal got into the toolshed," he replied. "I'll be right
back."
	"Leave it till morning."
	`And have it topple the workbench and all my tools? No, I'd
better. take care of it now."
	"Those tools have been sitting there for months. They can
wait till morning."
	Gareth ignored her and loped over the soft land to the shed.
The stink was gone. No-there it was, only slimmer now. The air
seemed to pulse with it when he stood before the door to the
toolshed. He nudged it open with the shovel and shone the lantern
in. .
	The workbench with its spread of tools was untouched.
Gareth entered and swung the light around. In the far corner of the
rectangular room, a tall black bale leaned. His eyes skittered to see
what it was. Closer up, it looked like the back of a hunched-over
gorilla. It shivered, and the air quaked with a charred stench.
	Gareth gasped and lurched about to leave. From the raftered
ceiling, a shadow scuttled. Gareth stopped to see what it was, and a
writhing spider, big as his hand, dropped into the beam of his
lantern, Gareth swung at it with the shovel, and it snagged the edge
of

the spade with its crablike legs and spurted down the length of the
wood handle to his arm.
	With a shout, he dropped the shovel, but too late. The thing
was on him! In his terror to swat it off; he dropped the lantern. It
rocked to its side and filled the room with an orange, fractured
light.
	Almost instantly, the spider dashed over his shoulder and
onto his back. .With flailing arms, Gareth tried to brush it off
while he rushed to the door. Its legs scratched .the back of his neck
and tangled in his hair, and as he reached for it, the thorns spurring
the creature's long front legs stabbed his wrists. He slammed into
the doorjamb, and spun about to see the black shivering bale in the
corner lean over and reveal a glistening blue slugface, frothing with
a putrescent ferment of juices. The sight of it made him scream.
	The spider gripping the back of his head shimmied tight
against his nape, and its powerful beak jabbed him, piercing his
skull with a sound like the crunch of gravel. Its probe needled into
his brain, and jagged electric colors tore through Gareth with a
searing agony. His body thrashed, and his brain went rubbery. He
couldn't move. He couldn't yell.
	But then he was moving. Through the jackhammer throb of
his hurt, through the sheets of flame snapping within him, he saw
himself weightlessly rising to his feet and sleepwalking toward the
slugfaced thing in the corner.
	Horror was a mote in the hugeness of his pain. The very grip
of his skull seemed a mere bauble in an ocean of boiling. Freezing
torment scalded him, and he was floating through it to the mucus-
webbed fibrils of the thing. His body bent at the waist, and his face
fit into the quivering maw of the slugface.
	The racheting anguish of his body stropped sharper, walloping
him to an excruciating pitch of dying.
	An hour later, his wife went out to the toolshed to find her
husband. All was dark. The air smelled doomful. She called his
name several times.
	"Gareth?" The toolshed shambled with noise.
	"Gareth." The door lazed open.
	"Gareth!" He appeared in the doorway, pop-eyed, his face
shining with the chrism of his possession. The. terrible hurt
dawdled on his wrung features. His face went slack, and finally his
lips bent like iron into an overjoyed leer.
	"Gareth-are you all right?" His wife didn't dare touch him.
His face looked sunburned. "What's happened to you?"
	His voice was tricked with grogginess. "I stumbled and took a
fall. I'm a little dazed."
	"What's that on your face?" she asked, wincing against the
brunt of the malodor clinging to him.
	"Turpentine. I knocked over my paint bottle when I tripped. -
I'd better get cleaned up."
	"I'll call Doc Burkard."
	Gareth's pop-eyed gaze thumped with alarm. "No! "
	His wife touched his shining neck fur. "Your neck is cut
open, Gareth!"
	"I'm all right," he assured her in his numb voice. "It's just a
scratch. Believe me."
	With much trepidation, his wife obeyed him. By the next
morning, she was glad she had. Gareth was himself again, and the
wound under his skull looked like nothing more than a welt.
	Gareth went off' to work as usual. All the habits were still
there, intact. His laughter was warm, his handshake crisp. No one
thought for a moment that he was different--except for the two
others who were as different as he.
	They met at lunch in a local diner. Nothing unusual was said
among the two men and the woman who

gathered there, but a foul stain spread in the air around them. And
when they broke up after lunch, the diner smelled sour as an:
outhouse and customers turned away.
	The fetor was under control by the next day. The zotl had
made the fine adjustments to this more acidy breed of Foke. The
brain of this food was much the same as the Foke brain and an
equally bounteous producer of the adrenergic pain molecules the
zotl craved. Here was a whole planet swarming with these slow-
motion delicacies, and they had stumbled upon it wholly by
accident. Their mission had been to ride the Rim looking for
gateways out of the black hole. When they had crossed through
one, they were to test the lynk technology they carried with them.
No one had expected this test run to find food. They immediately
set to work constructing a lynk large enough to accommodate their
jumpships.

	Carl Schirmer watched the zotl from inside his light lancer
armor deep in Enderby Land, Antarctica. His armor had sensed the
zotl as he entered the blue shadow of the atmosphere at the end of
his flight from the Werld. It informed him that a squadron of zotl
needlecraft had lucklessly detected his timelag echo the moment the
Rimstalkers propelled him into the center of the ring singularity. His
drop into the superspace of the black hole etched a minute trail of
doppler-shifted photons on the roiling surface of the Rim's event
horizon. By ill chance, a zotl squadron were scanning that exact
region at that exact moment. They interpreted the tiny gravity hole
as a natural phenomenon, one of the frequent wormhole
percolations along the Rim's horizon, and they were able to ride his
lynk through the gateway to the multiverse, arriving on earth
shortly before he did. Only later in Galgul, when the flight
records were finally examined, would the zotl realize that the lynk
was Foke-shaped. His armor detected them at once and took him
south, landing him among the fields of wind-combed snow and
pack ice.
	Examining himself, Carl saw a body of iridescent energy,
opalescing in the polar darkness. He felt invisible. No awareness of
cold or warmth. Only a sense of center, a jewel-cut silence, temple-
spaced inside him. From there, his armor showed him everything.
He witnessed the three needlecraft that had slashed to earth before
him, and he saw the bulky females dragging themselves into coverts
while the needlecraft were hidden underground. In the earth's
buoyant gravity, the arachnoid males easily hovered into an attic, a
tree, and the rafters of a toolshed to await their new hosts.
	Since the zotl and Carl had come from the same fargone place
in the cosmos, they were inertially bonded. The sensors in Carl's
armor telepathically connected him to them. He was there when
Gareth Brewster and two others like him were taken. He felt the
lightningflash of the zotl stab, gouging the brain, dazzling the body
with another will.
	He stayed in a dreamstate with that ugliness, his armor
standing in the lucent darkness of Antarctica and the wraith of him
nightmaring what the aliens were doing with their stolen bodies.
Eventually, the zotl were at home with their new lives, and the
whale music of their thoughts settled into the steady rhythms of
their work. Days had passed.
	Carl felt no hunger or fatigue. His armor had liberated him
from the physical dimension and sustained him in a luminosity of
euphoric alertness and stupendous rest that he called no-time. He
named it that because when he was in that state, what seemed
moments were really days. Time was easy.
	When the snow plumed around him with the

thrust of his departure, the armor made him know how long he had
waited and where he was going. Armor was not an exact enough
name for what enclosed him. He seemed sheathed in lightning, a
slick spectral mist that covered him from head to foot. He jetted
north into the sunrise, and where the light hit him he glossed like
gold.
	Carl's long travels on the fallpath had well prepared him for
flight, and he was comfortable with the motion-bristling terrain
running below him. The strangeness for him was the emptiness of
the sky, the fierce circle of the sun, and the endless continuity of
the geography. This wasn't the. Werld anymore.
	Villages and towns darted by. Forests and jagedged cities. A
coma of blue water. Islands. The bayou cities and a bullet-fast run
up the Mississippi River. Some people on boats and in planes saw
Carl, but they didn't know what they were seeing. He was traveling
low and at a blur that most people never noticed or simply ignored.
	Over Arkansas, Carl banked through the clouds and stayed
out of sight. He didn't have to see where he was going. His armor
knew. Minutes later, he landed in the tree haunts of the Barlow,
Arkansas, city park.
	His armor shut down, and he wobbled against gravity. Earth
air, fragrant with pondy odors, webbed about him, and he noticed
that the Rimstalkers had clothed him in Foke strider pants,
something like coarse jodhpurs, and a silky red finsuit top, flouncy
with vents. He looked like a Vegas act. In his right hand he even
had a baton. The black-latticed gold rod was his light lance. It had
the heft of a lead bar.
	Carl sauntered out of the park and stopped cold at the
sidewalk. The streets were filled with silent cars in styles he had
never seen. How long had he been away?
He went over to the kiosk at the mouth of the park and
looked at the newspaper.
	WORLD UNION OKAYS TRADE RULES. The date was two
years after he had vanished. A perusal of the newspaper
revealed that this Was quite a different earth from the
one he had left. Cars were electric. Electricty itself was
generated in vast arrays of solar panels in orbit about
the earth and beamed to communities as microwaves.
There seemed to be only one government worldwide
but that was all he could surmise at once, since the
vendor was making noises and he had no money.
	In Carl's sleeve pocket was the imp, the magnetic
plate the eld skyle had promised would be as good as
money. It was entirely blank until he tilted it toward
the light; then, the name ALFRED OMEGA winked at him.
The divining power in Carl tingled, and he knew that
this was the name the eld skyle had chosen for him. He
didn't take to it at once. It seemed silly at first, then
flippant, but ultimately apt. Alpha Omega was the
beginning and the end: Alfred was an Anglo-Saxon
name meaning "supernaturally wise"-and he certainly
had found, or been found by a wisdom at the end of
time, the omega point, that to him and to any human
would seem supernatural.
	Carl walked immediately to a bank and inserted
the imp card in the automatic teller. The crystal display
showed that he had several hundred thousand dollars at
this branch. He withdrew the card and entered the
bank.
	The bank officer who greeted him at her desk
commented favorably on his attire, asking him where
he had gotten his heel-thonged sandals.
	"Crafts fair," Carl told her and then quickly brought
the subject back to finance. She helped him to with-
draw several thousand dollars on the validity of his ID.
The blank imp was sponsored by a magnetic imager

that projected directly into the visual cortex of the brain
whatever an individual needed to see to approve of
Carl-or, rather, Alfred Omega. Carl accepted the mon-
ey with fingers that felt like fog. He was beginning to
glimpse the power the eld skyle had warned him to
control.
	The bank officer also helped him to plug into the
financial trunkline and assess all his holdings at other
branches and even at other banks. They never finished
counting his assets. They gave up after a half billion,
and with the bank president they called together sever-
al lawyers and established a regional corporate subdivi-
sion of Alfred Omega Ltd.
	They appointed a president, and as the first order
of business, Carl charged him to begin at once to
purchase three point five tonnes of fresh pig manure.
To allay suspicions and grease the wheels, everyone
involved was paid handsomely on the spot, and princely
salaries were meted out to the people Carl selected to
work for him.
	Carl didn't actually select them. Carl didn't do
anything but respond to the eidetic suggestions spilling
out of him. The gravity of large sums of money drew
together the people needed, and he merely released
those funds through his imp. It was all transacted by
computer, and he signed nothing.
	Once his business had been completed, Carl left
the bank and returned to the park. From a maple-hung
bunker hidden from the fairway of the park by a large
boulder, Carl activated his light lancer armor and arrowed
into the clouds above Barlow.
	A moment later, the armor put him down behind
the empty stadium at the University of Arkansas. The
idea kindled in him to go to the School of Science and
Technology, a congeries of buildings gleaming in Arkan-
sas red marble on a nearbv knoll. In the central build-
ing, he asked one of the secretaries to put his imp card in the school
computer's magnetic reader to see if his scholarship funds had
cleared.
	The secretary politely referred him to the bursar's office. Carl
smiled charmingly and held up his imp card.
	"Why didn't you say you were a Union scholar?" the secretary
asked incredulously, taking his card.
	He shrugged, and she inserted the card in the slot of a
computer console beside her. The video display crawled with data
about world history and then went blank. The card popped out.
	"That's weird," the secretary wondered. "I've never seen it do
that before."
	'Arid it probably never will again," Carl said, reaching over
and taking the imp from her hand. " I accidentally dropped it in
front of a skateboard yesterday. I'll take it back to the registrar.
Bye."
	Carl was barely out the door when his armor flashed on and
he was boosted into the empty Sky. No one had seen him. The
armor had an uncanny sense about that, and Carl queased with the
thought that the weapons he had been given were smarter than he
was.
	The light lancer armor flew him south, back to Antarctica.
He came down beside the mile-high terminus of a glacier where the
moraine rocks covered the ground like knives. The armor glowed
more softly, and Carl slipped into no-time.
	During those early days back on earth, Carl was still ringing
with what the eld skyle had told him. He wasn't human anymore,
and he didn't try to act as if he were. He thought idly about Evoe
and the utter beauty of the Werld-a place where colors and moods
existed that could never be real on earth. The snarling shapes of
windcut ice and the hurtling winds in the darkness at'

the world's -edge were more beautiful to him than the settled
places he had seen on his flight.
	After the open simplicity of the Foke, ironwrought human
cities seemed oppressive-and after the bold glassy architecture of
Rhene and the gravityfree jumpships and flyers of the zotl, human
science seemed puny.
	What did grip Carl's attention was the revelation that this
earth was not the earth he had come from. Finding out where he
had arrived was the reason he had gone to the university. Its
computer was patched into WEB, the World Educational Board,
and the imp had absorbed its encyclopedic data.
	At Carl's leisure in no-time, he learned about earth-two.
History was skewed, but only in recent times. World War Two
never happened. World War One was so terrible with air torpedoes
of nerve gas and rocket-launched germ bombs that the Twenties
were putrid with global plague. The world population was halved.
Political boundaries collapsed. What was left of the Bolshevik
Revolution and the League of Nations unified in the early Thirties.
Ideology was abandoned, and medical and agricultural technology
became the necessary focus of civilization. Power brokers still ran
the world, but the disruption of nationalism and the emergence of a
planetary identity initiated a peaceful and creative era in human
history.
	Earth-two was smaller in population by over a billion, but it
was larger in extent. The moon had been colonized for mining and
research purposes since the Fifties. Two manufacturing centers in
cislunar orbit had been producing a third of the earth's steel from
lunar rock since the late Sixties. And now in the Eighties, the
planet was celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of the end of
famine and the fiftieth anniversary of the World Union.
	Problems were no longer political but class-based.
Robots were replacing the working class and computers the
managers. The greatest problem facing the Union was how to
handle the riots of the many who wanted more than the standard
provisions they were allotted.
	The struggle for money and power was the same as on the
world Carl knew, but the context was safer. Without nuclear
weapons and international boundaries, the planet was a more
secure place, and Carl anguished in his brief spells out of no-time
that he had poisoned the earth with zotl.
	In no time, he monitored the aliens, feeling their sinewed
fusion with their hosts and hearing the clicks and whistles of their
thoughts. Work on their lynk was going well. No one in the
community had yet suspected the zotl's existence, and there wasn't
the slightest alarm among the residents of Ridgefield.
	Most of the possessed citizens' relatives and friends were
pleased with the changes they detected in their loved ones, a few
were exuberant, and none thought the worse for the cordial
behavior these people displayed. The zotl had to be liked by their
prey until the lynk was done.
	Carl waited, dreamstrung in no-time. Question was asleep. He
did not question. He did not think. The drumbeat of his life lolled
him peacefully until he felt that the zotl had completed their work.
	That instant, his armor surged, and his eyes jumped open to
see talons of icebergs clawing far below him. Dawn had come to
the south. The horizon was rubyrimmed with the seasonal change.

	Autumn leaves the colors of firecrackers whirled through the
streets of Ridgefield. Evening's pumpkin light glimmered over the
town, and the streetlamps mixed hazily. Gareth Brewster was one
of the last to leave the bank. He waved to another manager still at

her calculator and joked about late hours with the security guard at
the door.
	A silvery abalone Might flashed through the plateglass
windows. The lock on the revolving door snarled a spark, and the
door whirled with a cold fire. The figure of a man garbed in light
stepped into the bank's marble foyer.
	He held up a gold rod circuited with black lines, and with a
loud pop Brewster erupted into sparkling silver-blue flames. He
was kicked backward by the force of the blow, and his flame-
jetting body careened over the glossy floor and hit the tellers' wall
with a splash of fire.
	The manager, who had seen this from her desk, screamed, and
the security guard crouched with fear at the appalling sight of
Gareth's blackened body hived with wormy energy.
	When the guard reacted, spinning about, his pistol drawn, the
figure of blinding abalone light was gone.
	The light lancer armor had done the killing. Carl moved with
it, knowing the fire-gusting body had been zotl-infected-possessed
because of his return-but not feeling that knowledge. Nothing
reached him at a feeling level. Not until after he arrived at the
toolshed on the backlot of Brewster's land where the lynk was
being built.
	The remaining two zotl were there with the females. One had
already been sent back to Galgul through the lynk, a chrome
parabola enclosing a crystal light iridescing with movement. After
the female had crossed, the light went out.
	An explosion shook the air, and Carl came through the wall.
A side of the shed collapsed, bruising the night with the glaring
hues of the lynk's frame.
	A woman with gray bobbed hair and black marmoset eyes
stood before him, shaken with fear. She was
zotl, Carl knew. The other zotl, a bald, jowled man in a T-shirt was
loading a female onto the wood ramp sloping to the lynk.
"Rimstalker!" the woman awed.
	Carl willed himself to finish these two and be done, but the
armor did not respond.
	"Rimstalker, we are zotl." The old woman stepped closer.
"We are not here to fight. Don't provoke us."
	While she spoke, the man edged toward the workbench at the
side of the lynk. He jumped, snatched an object off the bench, and
rolled toward the lynk in a blur of inhuman speed. The crystalline
light jumped brightly inside the lynk.
	The armor, which Carl had been urging with all his mental
powers to react, moved suddenly. A flare of energy squashed the
man and a second burst kicked the woman into a blazing husk.
	Carl went over to the lynk and picked up the object the man
had grabbed. He knew then why the armor had waited. The object
was the gate device for the lynk. Only a zotl will could activate it.
Once the zotl had opened it, the armor had slain them.
	Carl approached the open lynk and pointed his light lance into
it. The lance bucked like a shotgun, and the lynk hues vanished.
	Carl pushed the chrome arch down, jumped into the sky, and
dropped a ball of writhing electric vipers onto the toolshed. The
entire hillock disappeared in a white blare of silence and reappeared
an instant later inside an oceanful roar of thunder. The toolshed
was gone, and a broth of silver mist swirled in the crater where it
had been.
	The armor shot Carl high over the avalanching thunder, and
he was told what had just happened: The armor had waited for the
lynk gate to be opened so that it could fire a gravity pulse into the
lynk. The pulse was amplified by a tunneling efect and came out the
other

end as a gravitational tsunami. Half of Galgul was probably
destroyed outright, and the zotl Werld empire seriously crippled.
	The information swept through Carl like a black
undercurrent. Evoe! He had probably killed Evoe. But not him! It
was the armor!
	The despair of that thought clashed with the armor's
mounting wavefront of euphoria, and a felt-before craziness, like a
dream remembered only in sleep, shuddered his mind. He flew
through the length of the night, until the brink of the world fell
below him and the sun jolted his eyes.
	Who was living him? All at once the idea of abrogating his
will to the Rimstalker's armor was a horror. The zotl were gone and
the eld skyle's medicine being gathered, but his Evoe had been
sacrificed. A scream banged for a way out.
	Carl forced his attention into himself. He wanted to feel his
own will, slight and muddling as it was. He didn't want to scream.
He wouldn't break down. He just wanted some control of his own
actions.
	The armor obliged, and Carl, hagggard with uncertainty, flung
himself toward the wall of dawn.

SCI-FI MURDERER SLAYS THREE
THREE KILLED BY LASER MONSTER

	The headlines glared from where they lay on -the mail carriage
that 'clanked by Zeke Zhdarnov's room six days a week. He wasn't
allowed newspapers-they fed his delusions-but Chad, the attendant,
usually placed the papers on top. of the mail carriage and left it
where Zeke could read them through the steel mesh of the door.
	Lately Zeke had not been coming to the cage door.
He was dreamward again--inspelled, he called it. Dr. Blau said it
was catatonia simplex. For Chad, big gladsome Chad, it was the
prelude to Out, that wakeful, brotherly, and voluble state Zeke got
into after inspelling. He came out of his trances hungry for human
contact. And Chad was always happy to face into his light-yearlong
stare and listen to his mild, almost fatherly rantings about ghost
holes, inertial waves, and infinity.
	Chad was happy to indulge this lunacy because when the old
man was through he was in a grateful mood and he always showed
his gratitude by naming -a winner in the next day's Daily. Chad
never told him that he played the horses, the old man just told him
the winners' names on his own. And he was always right. The
winners were invariably low-paying odds, but Chad had become
accustomed to the regular stipend. And he'd learned not to
question, Zeke-the old man babbled like, a washer-cracked faucet
anywhere near a question. And, of course, he never told anyone
else. It would have watered his odds at the track, and no one would
really have believed him anyway.
	He'd seen the old man do wilder  magic than horsebetting
with Dr. Blau, the chief of staff, and no one was impressed. Like
the time Zeke knew everything about Dr. Blau, even his family
secrets from the Great War, and the chief of staff explained it away
as an afflux of the collective unconscious and ordered the old man
shot up with depressants. 

	But drugs didn't affect him. After the shots, Zeke slumped to
sleep,, and once the staff were gone he'd get up. When Zeke was
medicated, Chad sometimes pretended to work in the rose garden,,
near the vine-knotted trellis from where, with the slant of the
afternoon rays, he could see into Zeke's room. The old man moved
about his cubicle with slow-motion ecstasy, arms

held up limply like an orangutan's, face luminous as a child's. He
was talking with the cosmos.
	Zeke, naturally, was not really an old man. He was thirty-six.
But in the last two years every strand of his black hair had gone
white, and he had grown a full beard that on his brawny frame
made him look like an aged mountain peasant.
	He himself no longer knew if he was mad. And he didn't care.
He had tapped a creative surge within himself that endowed him
with a calm self-absorption. The surge was cosmic. It'waved
through him with the rhythms of cloud-shadows, the spill of the
wind. He couldn't predict or command it, but when the surge was
on him, everything seemed possible. The buzzing chords of his body
relaxed, and a soft alertness rose through him, peaked to an
energetic wherewithal, and eventually eased into a quiescent clarity.
	Zeke had found this rhythm before he had been brought to
the asylum. He had found it the rainpattered night he had decided
not to question his feelings but to search for Carl wherever the
search led.
	The conclusions his reasoned search had found were so
bizarre that no one thought them real. And when he took them
seriously, his former friends and colleagues avoided him. He didn't
blame them. He no longer belonged in society. He was a cosmic
man now. What else could he be after pondering Carl Schirmer's
fate and deciding he had actually become light?
	In the journal he kept to monitor the evolution of his
thoughts, a journal he had named The Decomposition Notebook to
signify Carl's transformation though it just as aptly applied to
himself, he wrote: "Ignorance is worse than madness." Arid soon
after that his inspelling went deeper and he woke up in the asylum.
	During one of his first inspells, a year before, lying on his back
among his scattered books and papers,
seeing the blank ceiling as a vast cloud of atoms, he felt a fantasy
with the musculature of a conviction. He imagined that Carl's body
of photons had not only collapsed through a ghost hole but had
expanded through that same hole into another universe. And not an
entirely random universe. Whatever had collapsed Carl had used its
own inertia to guide Carl's light through the ghost hole to itself.
	This hypermetric entity Zeke called an urg, because it sounded
like erg, which was the quality that this thing had turned Carl's 150-
pound mass into. E = mc2, eh? Then, 69-kilo Carl became 61.2
million billion billion ergs. Enough energy to vaporize Manhattan if
he hadn't collapsed into the urg.
	And for what purpose? Zeke felt that there could be only one
purpose for a complexly organized polydimensional being like an
urg to snatch a scrawny, bald bartender. Carl was food.
	Food to a metaspatial being was bound to be something like
and quite unlike food to a human. Something like, in that nutrition
would be extracted from the process. But what would an nth-
dimensional being's nutritional needs be?
	Zeke figured an urg needed more than energy, because what
people defined as food energy was not photons themselves but the
timebound process of releasing photons. And a hungry urg, with the
resources to reach outside of its own time and implode a man to
light, could certainly satisfy its energic needs locally.
	Eventually, Zeke reasoned it was Carl's inertia, the sumful
potency of his wee mass within the cosmic mass of the universe,
that the urg wanted. Inertia, as light, was timefree and could be
transported through ghost holes to the urg's hypermetric locus
where no human mind could reason its digestion.
	One grand consequence of this trance-found theory

was that Carl, who had inertia but was not as a mind any particular
inertia, would survive. Zeke's hyperbolic mentations assured him
that it was unlikely that Carl had been harmed at all. As Carl's
inertia was extracted, the alien's equivalent inertia was
excreted=and because the basic conservation laws of the universe
insisted on equivalency, the alien's inertia was excreted as -another,
identical Carl-identical but for his inertia.
	Insights like that inspired Zeke's science fiction novel Shards
of Time. And the writing of the book inspired more inspelling and
more insights. The syndrome was devastating to Zeke's life in
society, since he spent most of his time communing inwardly in
states of mind that looked to others like coma.
	But he didn't care. He was happy only when he was inspelling,
which, now that he had arrived at the asylum, was almost
continually.
	Chad left the newspapers near Zeke's mesh door, and he was
surprised when he came back to see the old man reading them.
	"So you're Out," Chad chirped. "What galactic insights do you
have for me today Zeke?"
	"Hmm." Zeke was leaning against his gate, reading what he
could see of both papers simultaneously. "Have you read the lead
story?"
	"The raygun killer?" Chad asked with a chuckle. "Yeah, that is
wild. Seven witnesses and a video clip. from the murder in the
bank. Check out those photos." Chad opened the folded newspapers
and revealed the front-page photographs of a human-shaped glare, a
security guard, and a man in a three-piece suit. In one of the shots,
the bank manager was furry with tufts of light, his horrified face
twisting with the force of a blow while the man-shaped glare
pointed at him with a wand.
	When Chad looked at Zeke for his response, the
old man wasn't looking at the paper anymore. His ducal face
was staring through the rose trellis and into some subtle
reality. "I think it's time I gave you a big winner," he said in a
voice iffy as fog. He was inspelling, touching his will to the
torrent of power sluicing through his deepest cells-and the
sparks flew in his mental eye, flaring off his willful image of a
big purse at a racetrack, until the name of the track, the horse,
the jockey, and the race sparkled their brief instants in his mind.
"Put it all on Blue Karma in the second race at Aqueduct
tomorrow. Hidalgo will be riding. Got that?"
	"Yeah, Zeke," Chad answered in a quiet tone. "But why'
re you giving me a big winner? I mean, I'm happy with a small
purse, long as it's regular."
	"You guessed right, Chad," Zeke responded, his slim,
black eyes focusing again. "Our game won't be regular anymore.
In fact, this is your last chance for a sure win. I'll be leaving here
pretty soon."
	"Where're you going?" Chad asked anxiously.
	"I don't know, yet. But I'll be gone before the week's
out."
	"How can you say that?"
	"You see that newspaper?" Zeke nudged his jaw toward
the splayed photos of the bank murder. "That man is on his
way here to take me out. That, my friend, is Alfred Omega."
	"Your cartoon character?" Chad was incredulous. "Man,
you've amazed me too many times for me to disagree with
you. But if you call this one right, you ain't human."
	"Oh, I'm human, all right. And so is he," he answered,
looking at the news photos of the raygun killer. "But I don't
think those three he put away were. I figure they must have
been spider people or this wouldn't have happened."
"Spider people?" Chad folded up the newspapers.

"You mean, like in your novel? Spider people from
Timesend?"
"Uh-huh."
"You really think everything you've written is true."
	"Not everything, Chad. Just Shards of Time. I didn't
actually write it. It was written through me by the inspelling.
Somehow I'm connected with another world-I think inertially,
but not in the physical sense that we usually mean when we
use the word inertia."
	"Clam it, Zeke-here comes the doc."
	A frail, cleanshaven, elderly man with green eyes and a
woeful expression entered the rose garden. 'Ah, Zeke, I'm glad
to see you commiserating again."
	"I'm glad you're glad, Dr. Blau," Zeke said. "What brings
you to the zoo today?"
	"My usual social call." He unlocked the cage door and
opened it. "Routine unless you've had some kind of insight
into your condition. Is that so?"
	"You mean have I abandoned my insights?"
	"Your delusions, Zeke," Dr. Blau corrected, stapping the
cuff of a sphygmomanometer onto Zeke's left arm.
	Dr. Blau was baffled by Zeke. The patient in no way
displayed the classic symptoms of the cyclothymic schizophrenic
that the medical review panel had labeled him; that is, he wasn't
disassociative in his lines of thought or extreme in his
emotions, and he displayed no fixated neuroses except his
delusion that his fiction was real. His catatonic episodes, the
"admitting symptom" that had eared him his cubicle in the
asylum, were profiled by singular EEG readings, topsy-turvy
with theta waves at exotic intervals. Physically, his patient was
sound, virtually a model of physical health. And that, too, was
a problem, for Zeke barely ate enough to keep a man half his
size alive. Dr. Blau had agreed to hold off forced feedings and
intravenous supplements for as long as Zeke's body weight
and
blood chemistry remained. stable. And that, now, had been the full
eight months that he had been here. Initially, there had been some
instabilities when they weaned him from alcohol, but after the first
six weeks hi's metabolism leveled, and lie seemed to be drawing
sustenance from a current of power he called the Field.
	Chad had strolled off with the mail carriage, and Dr. Blau let
him go, though he had some questions for him about the
newspaper they were discussing that he knew Zeke would not
answer. Like: "Why did the news interest you today? I notice you
hardly pay any mind to current events."
	Zeke watched Dr. Blau remove the arm cuff and then place
the stethoscope to his heart. Zeke's face was benign and seemed to
have all the layers of light of a diamond.
	'Are you getting enough sun, Zeke?"
	"Now that the solar maximum is passed, I may spend more
time lolling in the sun. We'll see." Zeke smiled and buttoned his
shirt. "How'm I doing?"
	"You have the blood pressure and heart strength of a
teenager," Dr. Blau responded and led Zeke by the hand out of his
cubicle. The sunlight bounded off Dr. Blau's white coat, and Zeke
squinted to look at him. "You eat so little," Dr. Blau said. "How do
you manage to thrive?"
	"How do you grow your hair?" Zeke walked into the shade of
the rose arbor. "The body does it. I don't think about it."
	"But I need more than four hundred and fifty calories a day to
keep growing my hair. Do you have any thoughts on why you
don't?"
	"In fact, I have," Zeke said, smelling a rose. "But I don't feel
like telling you."
	"Tell me anyway."
	"Why should I?"

"Because I want to know you."
	"You've had eight months to study me. You know what I
would say."
	Dr. Blau nodded, put a wingtipped oxford on the edge of a
stone bench, and leaned his arm on his knee ruminatively: "Yes, I
suppose I do." He leveled his most earnestly friendly stare on Zeke.
"You still believe the 'Field' sustains you?"
	"Call it the earth's biomagnetic field, if you prefer that
nomenclature. But that, too, is a misnomer. The Field
interpenetrates all spacetime. Here in the solar biopause we call it
life. But when you're aware of the Field, you see that everything is
living-rocks, atoms, even the vacuum."
	"I see." Dr. Blau stood upright and jammed his hands into his
pockets. "But why can you utilize this Field and I can't?"
	"You could if you wanted. Look, I've told you all this before.
The Field is there. We wouldn't be standing here talking about it
unless it was real. But if you want to be conscious of it, you have to
empty your head to make enough room for the experience. It's big,
Doc. And without neurotransmitters like LSD to help turn off the
inhibitors, the brain stays locked in its chemical habits. The mind is
so much a part of the Field, it doesn't normally sense it."
	"Go on."
	"That's all I'll be telling you about the Field, Doc."
	Dr. Blau shrugged. He signed to two beefy whitesmocked
guards that had been watching their conversation from the other
side of the rose garden, and they approached to escort Zeke back to
his cubicle. "I'm sure in a few days you'll be happy for the
company," Dr. Blau said, turning to go. "We can talk then."
	"I won't be here."
	Dr. Blau stopped. "Oh, really?"
	Zeke walked back into his room and gently closed the mesh
gate after him. "Sometime in the next few days, my dear doctor,
Alfred Omega will be coming for me."
	"In the flesh?" Dr. Blau asked with raised eyebrows.
	"Decidedly."
	Dr. Blau's gray, wirestrand eyebrows lowered slowly as he
mulled this over. "I'll be looking forward to meeting him at last," he
said with his usual spry humor, though concern clouded him. This
was the first time that his patient had expressed a deadline for his
delusion. The inevitable disappointment would be a blow that
could finally collapse the whole delusional system-. Excitement
competed with anxiety in the psychiatrist, for a collapse could be
the turning point of a cure.
	Dr. Blau smiled his sad, open smile and patted the mesh gate.
"When Alfred Omega gets here, we'll all have a good chat."

	The dark hills of the Ozarks bowed below Carl Schirmer like
the bent backs of migrant workers. The sun was high, and his armor
flashed bluegold as it guided him down the sky to Barlow,
Arkansas. His heart was heavy as metal, and when -he alighted on a
rooftop in the downtown district, he sat on the edge of a skylight
and wept.
	Evoe was probably dead-killed by the vindictive strategy of
his armor. His armor? He had not planned to fire a gravity wave
into the zotl lynk, nor had he intended to kill human beings even if
they were possessed by zotl. He had trusted the light lancer armor,
and it had used him for its grim purposes.
	Rimstalker strategy, he thought, remembering chillfully the black
devil-flames of Rataros. His armor was the master-and he was the
weapon.
	His tears drained his grief and left him dulled. He

looked closely at the lance in his right hand. The gold metal
returned a bellied reflection hatched with the black branchings of
circuit lines. His face looked belligerent and stronger than he
imagined himself.
	At the muzzle end of the lance, an amber lens
grinned a rainbow. Opposite that, at the hilt, a black
rectangle pulled off in his strong grip. It was his lynk. It
looked nothing like the cumbersome metal arch the
zotl had built in Ridgefield. This was just a black
square he could hide, in his hand, yet the inspiriting of
knowledge that had come with the armor assured him
that this dense, apparently inert object could transport
tons of earth mass to the far end of time.
	Holding the lynk, Carl's purpose flushed stronger in him. He
snapped the lynk back onto the lance's hilt and walked off the roof
through a firedoor and down the stairs to the street. At a nearby
clothier's, he used some of his cash to purchase underwear, an
expensive gray suit, tan shoes, a silk shirt and tie, and gray aviator
sunglasses.
	He neatly folded his finsuit top, strider pants, and sandals into
a leather and wood attache case. He also bought a black umbrella
and in the secrecy of the dressing room fitted his lance into it, using
gentle welding bursts to secure it to the umbrella's metal ribs.
	Then he used a pay phone first to call the bank he had hired
to handle his affairs and then to order a limousine from a local taxi
service. While waiting for his car, he had lunch at the best
restaurant he could find in the small town.
	Carl had no real appetite. In fact, the armor, which was a unit
small as a dime and impacted at the base of his skull and which
projected, the iridescent field of force around him when he
commanded it, also sustained his biologic processes. Food was
unnecessary as long as he activated his armor regularly. But the taste
and texture of the meal comforted him with the animal
recognition of eating, and he ate a large meal while he
pondered his situation.
	He resolved, between a course of split-pea soup and
broiled trout, to do what he had been sent to accomplish, but
to do it with as little reliance on his armor as possible. The
musical program in the background faded, and a news bulletin
announced .the bizarre raygun deaths of three people in
Ridgefield, Indiana; earlier that day.
	Carl's interest in food faded in midbite, and he paid his
bill and went outside to wait for his limo. The long black car
pulled up to the restaurant ten minutes later, and he had the
driver take him to the address that the bank had given him.
	The ride cruised out of town, wound through the
surrounding braes and hills, and eventually hissed up a newly
graveled road to a long warehouse luminous with fresh paint.
A chocolate-brown Mercedes was already parked in the lot in
front of the warehouse's giant sliding doors. He dismissed his
driver with two hundreddollar bills and walked over to the
warehouse.
	Silverhaired Mr. Powells, the man Carl had hired to
oversee his enterprise, was inside the air-cooled, dimly lit
building with two of his assistants, examining the three huge
mounds of pig manure heaped on the concrete floor. The
stink kicked like a mule.
	"Mr. Omega," Mr. Powells acknowledged Carl, offering
his hand and a generous smile.
	"Al, please." Carl shook his hand and nodded to the
others. They met his stare deferentially, obviously surprised by
his elegant and conservative appearance, having expected to see
him again in his Foke attire. "Three point five tonnes?"
	"Accurate to within a few pounds on the heavy

side, Al," Mr. Powells assured him. "It's raw, untreated pig
manure. The largest pile in the county."
	"Good." Carl motioned everyone outside. "Let's get some
breathable air."
	He walked to the Mercedes, and faced Powells there. "You
have the papers?"
	Mr-Polvells handed him the contract the bank had drawn
up to his specification, and . Carl examined it. The papers
simply bound Powells and the others to secrecy in return for
which they would receive substantial sums each month. After
he signed it, Carl accepted the warehouse keys.
	"Would you like me to arrange for a distributor?" Mr.
Powells asked. "I assume all this crap is going to be processed
into fertilizer:"
	"No-1 mean, yes-but I'll take care of that;." Carl answered.
	"You'd better do it fast," one of the assistants said.
"You'll want to recycle that stuff before it really festers. Even in
this cool weather it won't be long before it gets very ugly"
	Carl just smiled. He waved as they left. Once they had
pulled out of sight, he turned on his armor and went back into
the warehouse.
	He waded into the dung, using his lance to clear his way.
As near to the center as he could estimate, he placed the small,
rectangular lynk. Nothing happened, but he knew in his special
way that the lynk had already begun converting the inertia of
the tonnage.
	He locked up the warehouse and launched himself into
the sky. The armor urged him southward toward the polar
wastes, but his will forced against those inner promptings,
bending the impulse of his flight, and he flew west toward a
new freedom.

Zeke sat facing the rose garden through the cross-
hatch of the -gate that confined him to his small room. He stroked
his lion-grained beard, and his black eyes were empty as an open
grave.
Where was Alfred Omega?
	Dr. Blau's green stare silently asked him that at every
encounter, in a mocking way that hoped to break his "insanity."
	And Chad, who had won big enough at Aqueduct to quit his
job, still came by every week to see how he was doing and to ask
with his mundane stories his unspoken query: Where was Alfred
Omega?
	Thoughts like brambles tangled Zeke's emotions with hurt
and doubt. Maybe he was wrong-wrong about everything. Maybe
nothing he had found in his surges was right. Maybe the mirror that
never forgot Carl's last image was faithful to a different meaning
than the one the science of his imagination had revealed.
	He was trapped, deep in the labyrinth of events that were
heavy with madness. But the events were real: Carl had become
pure light. The surges from far in his solitude had provided clews
of ideas that had led him on---and on-but not yet out of the
labyrinth.
	Shaking with doubt, fearful of his own suffering, he had to
admit he was wrong about Alfred Omega. Why had he ever
thought Carl would come back? The thought was simply imaginary,
something he had dreamed up after his novel and then taken
seriously because the subtle thread of his extrapolations had led him
that way through the labyrinth. And now he realized the thread had
woven a trap. He'd made a fool of himself. Worse
he'd convinced everyone he was mad.
	He quaked for several more minutes, then shrugged off his
self-pity. So he had guessed wrong about Alfred Omega. He wasn't
Christ. He was just a scientist. He didn't do miracles. They did him.
The Field was real.

And the power of the Field was real. He was living on it. The rest
was just guesswork, mere hypotheses.
	Zeke cradled his heavy head in his hands, and the pain of his
doubt cut his wonderings back to the split of mind and being where
everything is given.
	The ominous drone of the wind rivering over the Rockies
blanked Carl's mind, and he stood gleaming in his armor on a ledge
among the sharktooth crags of the Sawatch Range. Rushets of
cloud shredded through a blood-colored sky, and the mountain
range loomed below him in the gold mist of a set sun.
	Carl was budging himself into no-time, but the troubling
thoughts that he wanted to escape dangled with him in the lustrous
spaces of his armor.
	Three people had died to readmit him to earth.
	And this wasn't even his earth. What was earthtwo? These
mountains had the same secret design as the mountains on earth-
one. The same eagled cliffs, the same uplifted slants of ancient
seabottoms, and the same stars tapping on in the dizzy peak of the
sky.
	How many earths were there-really? Infinity was not real.
,Unless it fathered another Evoe. In an infinite continuum, he
could possibly find her again. But the only way to know was to
finish his work here on earth-two and lynk back to the Werld and
the eld skyle.
	Two months to go.
	No-time was not the same. Images of the three he had killed
pastiched his hemiconsciousness with his memory of firing a gravity
wave into the zotl's lynk to Galgul. The anxiety of his solitude made
the rutilous embrace of the light lancer armor feel like a sealed
bottle. The dismal birr of the mountain-cut wind help-pd to still his
mind, and he bobbed miserably in and out of trance. He persisted
like this for days before acknowl
edging that he had- lost access to no-time. Maybe forever.
	It was night when he decided to go east, to Manhattan. What
few friends he had were there. He had to see if they were the same
people he had known. And if they were, if they could grace him
with any sense of the familiar, he was determined to use his imp
card for them. Though the eld skyle had warned him to stay away
from those who knew him, the anger` of his stress strengthened his
defiance, and he went with the wind, soaring through the darkness.
	Dawn was sliding into the harbor when he arrived in New
York. The famous skyline was turning. below him, and the dark sky
around him was glittering with insect-distant jet planes. He
imagined the Blue Apple and let the armor fly him in low over the
East River, up Lafayette Street to Broadway, and then across
Twentysecond Street to Seventh Avenue. Dozens of people saw
him, but only for splintered instants, for he flew along the rooftops,
a golden blur shooting among the watertanks and chimneys. The
sound of his flight broke across the traffic noise, and no one heard
him.
	He landed in the cluttered courtyard behind the building that
housed the restaurant. The ivy-clawed walls had shed their red
leaves, and the birdbath, hibachi, patio table, and chairs were
littered with the season's refuse. His armor shut down, and the
nearby leaves dervished away from him.
	Familiarity trilled about him like a birdsong, and he spun
about slowly to fit everything against the template of his memory.
The basil troughs had gone to seed, and most of the leaves were a
crisped brown. He stooped over one of the troughs and found the
thumbprint he had left when he had touched the wood with his
paint-smudged hand. The print fit his thumb precisely.
	Carl picked up a pebble and flung it at the window

above the back door. He tossed several more gravel stones before
the window swung open and the gray sleep-tousled head of
Caitlin Sweeney poked out.
	"Get away from here, youl" she called down and waved her
hand at him like 'a brown sock. "This house is still mine, and I
won't have you driving me out until my proper time is up."
	"Your time isn't up .yet, Caitlin Sweeney," Carl called back.
"Come down here and let me in."
	Caitlin leaned farther out the window and stared down at
him. "Who are you?" she asked, almost in a growl.
	"Don't you recognize me, Caity? Has my voice changed, too?"
	"You sound like-" she began, then looked more closely. "You
couldn't be."
	"Take another look," Carl said, removing his sunglasses.
"Caity, it's me, Carl."
	Caitlin's scream knotted in her throat, and her aghast
expression collapsed to a wondering stare. "Carl?"
	She rubbed her whole face and looked intently at him. "Carl--
can this be? Jesus-"
	"It is me, Caity," Carl said. "Come on-let me in."
	"Sweet, sweet Jesus," she mumbled and disappeared.
Moments later the back door flung open and she stood time-bent in
the doorway, staring at him in pale disbelief.
	"I've got more hair and muscle," Carl admitted. "And my face
is a little stronger-looking, I think. But it's me. Remember that
morning I spilled hot coffee in my lap while I was counting the
strands on my head, and you said I had to work on my image? Hah!
Remember?"
	"It is yowl" Caitlin screamed and rushed into his arms. She
pulled back enough for her rheumy eyes to study the small details of
his face. This pugnacious, blond face was Carl's, slimmed down and
tautened. And finally recognizing him, she grabbed his thick
shoulders and dropped her whole weight into his embrace. "Carl( I
must be dead. I can't believe you are really here. You're more solid
and real than ever."
	"I have a lot to tell you," he said, unprying her lamprey hold.
"Let's go inside. I have to tell all this to someone."
	Caitlin immediately called Sheelagh, who was now living in
the dorms at CCNY. While they waited for her, Caitlin listened,
and Carl lied. He told her about his riskful adventures gambling his
small savings against stock index futures and then reinvesting in a
dangerous but high-yield emerald-mining cartel in Bolivia.
	She bought the whole story, especially after Carl made a few
phone calls and arranged to buy back the Blue Apple from the bank
that was foreclosing on it.
	The startling change in his physical appearance he accounted
for as cosmetic surgery and honest labor in a weight lifters' camp.
	Carl had been sorely tempted to tell the old woman the truth,
but the subtle energy sluicing into him from his umbrella dissuaded
him. And more than that: After the initial excitement wore o$;
Caitlin became remote. Much more than Carl's appearance had
'changed. He smelled different. The tailoring by the eld skyle of his
alpha androstenol did not appeal to Caitlin. Though she did not
know why, she was uneasy about Carl, and only his generosity with
his stupendous wealth kept her from saying so.
	The sight of the Blue Apple's interior, where he had worked
so hard and .where his old dreams had thrived, charged him with a
brilliant euphoria. This had been the center of the universe for him,
and now, with all the bottles, chairs, and tables removed, it was
the husk of his former life-and the power in him gleamed to be
here and yet so very, very far away from all that this had been.

	Everything looked smaller and cheaper, to him now, including
Sheelagh. She entered the Blue Apple in a fleecy sweater, tight
jeans, and boots. While her mother relayed Carl's storyful lie;
Sheelagh walked her amazement around Carl. "It really is you, isn't
it?" she said several times, her eyes threaded with a wondering light.
"We thought you died in your apartment fire."
	"I heard about that fire," Carl said, looking at Sheelagh's
blond-downed features, slender and attractive, yet petulant,
shallow with the youth of her life. And he wondered how he could
have loved this woman so madly. She had none of the clarified
power that auraed Evoe, none of the sexual poise that haunted his
memories of his woman one hundred and thirty billion years away.
	"Yeah," Carl continued, "I even heard that I 'died' in that fire.
But the delicate deal I was muscling through in La Paz didn't allow
me to acknowledge my real identity. I had to let it go. And now
that the deal's gone through, I'm back. I really want to make up for
the anxiety I've caused you girls. We are going to celebrate."
	"Buying back the Apple was a good start," Caitlin said,
hugging him again but holding her breath.
	"That's just the beginning, friends." Carl felt expansive
staring into these two well=known faces, and he made no effort to
disguise his shining feeling. "Tomorrow, we're going to buy you
a couple of condos uptown and a car or two if you want. Clothes.
Servants. Whatever you want."
	The two women stared at him with baffled excitement,
hardly believing this was real.
	Sheelagh brushed her honey-toned hair back from her face, as
though she needed more sir to keep from fainting. "This is so
unreal." She touched the strong cast of his face. "You really have
changed. I never
would have thought it was possible." She put her hands inside the
cool gray silk of his jacket and hugged him with a fervor she had
never used with him before. The lavender fragrance clouding about
him excited her as much as the new, rough cut of his features. "I'm
so glad you're back, Carl. No one is going to believe this."
	"Let's hope not," Carl said, easing her away from him. "I want
to keep as low a profile as possible. I've made a lot of money, and I
want to share it with you, but I've also made a lot of enemies, and I
need to stay out of sight."
	"Nobody makes real money. without making enemies," Caitlin
said, her filmy eyes narrowing to better study him. "How much
danger is there for us?"
	The question was an honest one that rang alarms in the
mental spaces of his armor. Theoretically, zotl, or any other Werld
creature, could appear in the immediate vicinity of his armor at any
time. So far, only airborne bacteria had drifted through the lynk
corridor that perpetually connected him with the Werld. Following
the cues of his armor, he had occasionally purged the air about
himself with ultraviolet light intense enough to kill the
microorganisms. But it was unwise for him to spend too much time
around anyone.
	"The danger is mine, not yours," he lied to Caitlin, and she
looked as though she knew damn well he was lying.
	"Mom, please," Sheelagh said, taking Carl's arm. "This is Carl.
He's come back to help us."
	Caitlin said nothing more critical that day. He was indeed Carl
Schirmer; she could see that now that she had been watching him.
And he did have money. Lots of it. He took them uptown to the
fancy boutiques on the, East Side and spent thousands on clothes
for the two of them. They ate at several swank restaurants,

sampling the specialities of each place .and getting wildly drunk.
	Carl was happy, and his disguise faltered only once. At one of
the cafes a tune came over the radio that brittled the laughter in his
mouth and turned his eyes to December roads. The music was a
synthesized pop version of the song he had composed for Evoe.
Sheelagh took his hand when she saw him distancing -away, and he
snapped out of his spell..
	Later that day, he installed his friends in a twofloor
condominium in a luxury tower on Sutton Place. The cost was
phenomenal, setting up an opulent arrangement literally on the spot,
but Carl seemed not one whit drained. Caitlin's anxiety slackened,
especially since now her drunken fits did not have to be melancholy.
Her daughter's future had instantly gone from bleak to posh, and
that more than anything eased her. If only Carl didn't smell so
strange.
	At night, exhausted from Jheir busy day Carl, Sheelagh, and
Caitlin were sitting in the penthouse sprawl of the two-story
apartment, watching the sprinkle of lights on the East River. They
were sipping fine Irish whiskey, and Caitlin's eyes had cleared to a
shining glow. "What I don't understand, Carl, is the mirror."
	"What mirror?" The whiskey had made him feel limber, and
the company of his two friends over the last couple of days had
unshackled him from his concerns about Evoe and the zotl.. He had
to wait out the two months before he could leave, and this was a
lot more comfortable than a polar aerie.
	"Zeke, the friend of yours who found your burnedout
apartment, also found an image of you in the bathroom mirror,"
Caitlin said.
	"He used a computer to make it clearer," Sheelagh added,
"and it looks like you-that is, like you used to look."
	"Zeke." The sound of his old friend's name felt
unfamiliar in his mouth. What had the eld skyle said
about Zeke? Carl couldn't recall. "What is the image?"
	"It's a picture of you," Sheelagh said. "Somehow
the fire captured it."
	"But you say you were in Bolivia," Caitlin put in,
her voice dark with doubt. "I don't see how. You
worked in the Blue Apple that night."
	They waited for Carl to answer, but he had sunk
backward into himself, remembering that night a soul
ago. He had been stepping out of the shower when he
caught fire. His last memory of earth-one came back-.
the black kicking him into an orgasmic blackout. The
ice rattled in his drink.
	"What really happened that night?" Caitlin wanted
to know. "The police never figured it out."
	"I couldn't possibly tell you about that night," he
replied softly. "The fire..." He stalled.
- "The bathroom was a burned-out hole," the old
lady said. "Not even the fire department could make
sense of it."
	"It's something I can't explain now" Carl stared up
at the ceiling, fighting the impulse to tell them every-
thing. The armor's inspiriting reminded him of the
three that had died in Ridgefield, and the urge to
explain himself dissipated. "The night was a strange
one. It began a new life for me. You're my past. My
dear and treasured past. I wanted to share the bounty
of my fortune with you before I burdened you with the
pain of it all."
	"That sounds understandable to me," Sheelagh
said.
	"It sounds satanic to me," Caitlin flared. "Look-
I've talked with the police and the fire officials.. They're
baffled. I've seen the mirror-held image of you. And it
is you. Or it was." She sipped her drink. "Zeke, at first,

thought you had combusted by yourself. Then he started
getting these ideas about ghost holes. Either way, he
says that for part of a second, your bathroom was hotter
than the skin of the sun. That's supernatural.". -
"Mom." Sheelagh glared at her mother.
	"Don't look at me like that," she said to her
daughter; then to Carl: "An unexplainable fire, a locked
mirror, a long absence, and then you return with fabu-
lous wealth and the looks to rival Dorian Gray. Carl,
tell us the truth. Have you made some kind of satanic
pact?"
	"Mother!" Sheelagh was at the edge of her crushed-
leather chair.
	"There's nothing supernatural about this," Carl
said, affecting an amused smile. "What's happened to
me is mysterious but not occult. It'll all make sense
someday when I can talk about it. But now, I want to
know about Zeke. How is he?"
	Caitlin's response was sharp as a whip: "He went
mad."
	Carl shifted in his seat, alarmed by the old wom-
an's antagonism: The eld skyle had known Zeke had
suffered. The confirmation of it burned. "Where is he?"
	"At the Cornelius Psychiatric Hostel. It's an asylum
on Long Island," Sheelagh told him. She reached over
and put a hand on his arm. The solid muscle banding
his wrist amazed her. "He's pretty bad now. But for a
while, just before his breakdown, he went through a
brief creative spell. Painting, plasticine models. He
even wrote a novel."
	"You have a copy?" he asked.
	"Somewhere. It'd be easier to get one at a book-
store. I see it around. It's called Shards of Time. It's
science fiction."
	Carl uncoiled from his seat. "Want to come with
me?" he asked.
	"It's eleven oclock, " Sheelagh answered, getting
up anyway. "All the stores are closed."
	"We'll break in. Come on." He motioned for Caitlin
to join them, but she just stared at him across her
drink, cold with suspicion.
	Carl got a copy that night by paying a ludicrous sum
to a night watchman at Brentano's. He and Sheelagh
went back to the Sutton Place suite. Caitlin was asleep
where they had left her. Sheelagh put her to bed, and
when she came back, Carl was immersed in the book,
his face stony and pale. She waited around to see if he
might show some interest in her, and when he didn't,
she went to bed.
	A rage of disbelief mounted in him the more he
read. The monotonous fear that had inhabited him
since Evoe had been taken away blew off in a cold blast
of horror. The book he was reading was an account of
his life in the Werld!
	The names were different: The eld skyle was called
an urg, skyles were skylands, the Foke were the Peo-
ple, zotl were spider people, and the Werld was
Timesend. It was a story in the bold, often bloated style
of science fiction:

The flyer landed on a skyland cliff among
spires of fir. The,pod went black.
"We'll send the flyer back," Eve's alto
voice said in the darkness. "`They'll only be
able to trace us to here-and by the time they
do we'll be long gone."
The canopy bolts hissed open, and sharp
alpine air flushed in. I rolled out of the flyer,
and stood up among bleached grass drooping
over a whispering plunge. My eyes must have
looked like raisins, for Eve sang with laughter.

	At dawn, he was reading the book through for the
second time, terrified by the parallel reality of its
words. Only the ending was different, for it depicted
Eve and Ken, the narrator, going off together blissfully
into Timesend.
	His eyes were red, tear-torn, and his whole body
hollowed, a bubble of silence. He dropped the book
and shuffled out of the apartment, needing air. He
walked down Fifty-seventh Street to Central Park.
	Madness is lonely, he thought at the edge of the
pond, dawn spreading on the water like a tree of light.
The city of his mind was frenzied with the commerce of
implications and ideas. "How could Zeke have known?"
was the question that enjambed "What is .real, any-
way?" This was earth-two. This was a place as alien as
the Werld. Nothing was real. Everything was possible.
Not even Evoe's song was his in this place.
	Madnesses mingled in him, and he may very well
have lost all perspective then and there, but the wild
shout that was gathering sound in him was interrupted
by the slice of a sharply pitched whistle. It was the
furious sound of his mind cracking. Until he recognized
whaf it must be: The whistle was coiling from his left
breast pocket.
	He reached into his chamois jacket and withdrew
the imp card in a hand that went cold with realization.
The sound was the warning tone, announcing that
something sizable had come through his lynk to the
Werld. He looked about him-but, of course, there was
nothing Werldlike here: In his amazed stupor he had
left his lance back at the apartment!
	He sprinted across Fifty-ninth, caroming off brak-
ing cars and bounding around pedestrians. Whatever it
VMS, it was back at the suite.
	Sheelagh was asleep, but the sound from where
Carl had dropped his gear woke her. It was not a
recognizable noise. It sounded like oil sizzling in a pan,
only louder and with a crackle that was almost electrical.
	Sheelagh had left her door open in case Carl wanted to be
with her, and she could see Caitlin asleep in her open room. She got
out of bed, and the noise crisped sharper. She didn't bother putting
a robe over her negligee but went directly to Carl's room.
	The hot noise was definitely fuming from there. She
knocked, and the weird sound went on heedlessly.
	"Carl?" The door was unlocked. She nudged it open and saw
nothing through the crack. She opened the door wide and only then
saw what was making the racket.
	The wall above Carl's empty bed was brown with the thick
shape of a giant bug. The huge trilobite shimmered with the
vibrations of its complex mouthparts and antennae.
	Sheelagh screamed, and the thing scuttled off thewall and onto
the bed. Its broad, flat body covered the whole quilt, its many thorn-
spurred legs quivering with the insanity of its gnarled perceptions.
	Sheelagh's scream woke Caitlin, and she popped out of her
room in time to see the insectile head emerge from Carl's room.
Sheelagh had backed into the living room on nightmare-vague legs
and was trying to scream again, but her breath refused to work.
	The monster crawled out of the bedroom, its hissing cry
sirening louder.
	In her desperation to get away, Sheelagh tumbled over an
ottoman, and the thing hulked toward her. Caitlin mastered her
terror and heaved a glass ashtray at it. The ashtray bounced off the
calcareous plate of the creature's back, and it reared.
	Sheelagh scrambled away from the beast and was clawing at
the drapes to pull herself upright,. the gro

tesque eyestalks of the startled beast brushing her back, when Carl
banged into the apartment.
	He shouldered past Caitlin and rushed into his bedroom. The
next moment, he came out with a gold rod in his hand. A sight-
searing bolt of lightning lashed out of the rod and struck the knot
of the monster's head. The beast's death-thrash was lost in the
retinal glare.
	Moments later, when Sheelagh could see again, she found
herself spraddled beside the stiff upended body of the thing.
Firecrackers were bursting in her muscles, and her mind jumped in
and. out of herself in a tantrum of horror.
	Carl touched her with the lance, and she calmed instantly.
	"What's going on here?" she asked, her amazement expanding
in her like light through the void. Her calm seemed permanent as
the heavens, and she examined the dead thing without fear.
	"Devil son of Lucifer!" Caitlin shouted.
	Sheelagh got to her feet in time to keep her mother from
clawing at Carl.
	Carl swung his lance around and touched the old woman.
	Caitlin's scowl unlocked, and she seemed to shrink as she
settled back on her weight. "What have you done to me?" she
puzzled. The flare of her animosity was like an evening color, an
apricot dusk shriveling into the horizon.
	"Wait for me in another room," he said to them. "I have to
dispose of this thing, and I don't want you exposed to the
radiation."
	The two women retreated, his armor came on, and he used an
inertial pulse to scatter the corpse's atoms. In a fraction of visible
time, half of it vanished; the rest
jumped with the impact, and the. next pulse finished it. No
trace remained.
	Carl found Caitlin and Sheelagh in the kitchen. Sheelagh
was making tea, and her mother was sitting in the breakfast
nook. They regarded him charily when he entered.
	The lance hummed inaudibly in his hand. "So I lied." He
sat on a stool and laid his lance on the counter beside him. He
told them most everything.
	They listened quietly, sipping their tea, accepting what he
said. When he was done twenty minutes later, their eyes were
bruised with sleep. The lance was drowsing them. They went
back to their beds without responding to him.
	He showered, letting his anxiety drain away, dressed in a
three-piece dark-blue pinstripe suit, took his lance, and left the
apartment.
	Carl arrived at the bucolic Cornelius Psychiatric Hostel in a
limousine. The lance inside his left sleeve was cool, almost
cold, against the flesh between his wrist and elbow. He put his
gray aviator glasses on and adjusted his tie by the reflection
from the glass partition that separated him from the driver.
The car waited for him under the ivied porte cochere while he
went in.
	The day receptionist was just setting up in the wake of the
nightshift, and she didn't look up at him.
	"I'm here to see Zeke Zhdarnov."
	"Visiting hours begin at ten," the husky woman said, not
taking her spectacled eyes off her work. "You're two hours
early"
	"Perhaps this will explain," Carl said, showing her the
imp card.
	She glanced at it wearily. "What's a blank card supposed to
explain?"
	Carl's smug look evaporated. He tucked the card back in
his breast pocket, tossed his eyebrows in a

carefree expression, and walked past the receptionist toward
the wide double doors with the wire-mesh-glass windows. If
she didn't see anything on the card, he figured it was because
she didn't have to.
	"You can't go through there," she called after him.
"Those doors are locked.
	The lance tucked up his sleeve hummed. A spark
snapped in the lock, and the doors swung open at his touch.
	The corridor led through chromed examining chambers,
which were empty, to a diagnostic room appointed with
fluorescent X-ray reviewers on the wall, anatomical charts, a
model of the brain, and a green chalkboard. On the board this
was written in a strong, clarified hand: "`First find where the
darkness lies. Opposite that stands a great light."
	Beyond the chalkboard were three adjacent doors. Carl
sensed with certitude which of the three led toward Zeke.
	"Can I help you?" A short, white-haired man with the
seamed face of a shrunken apple and alert green eyes stood
behind Carl. An orderly with a hulking frame accompanied
him. "I am Dr. Blau, the chief of staff"
	"Please,, do." Carl faced him and presented the white card.
	"What's this?" His wrinkled mouth turned down,
puzzled. `t1 white card?"
	Carl obviously didn't need him either, so he turned about
and headed for the door that-led to Zeke.
	"Wait, please," Dr. Blau said, and signaled the muscled
orderly to stop Carl.
	Carl proceeded without hesitation, and the orderly
grabbed his left arm to stop him. The shout of electricity was
louder than the orderly's yelp as the invisible force about Carl
heaved the man away.
	Dr. Blau crouched over the fallen man and saw that -he was
stunned senseless but his vital functions were stable.
	Carl approached the locked and bolted door that opened to
the rose garden and the detention cubicles. The lock sparked open
and the bolt clacked aside.
	"Please, stop." Dr. Blau's voice was conciliatory. "What are
you doing?"
	Carl responded to the concern in the doctor's voice. "I'm
looking for my friend," Carl answered. "My best friend. Zeke
Zhdarnov. He's here, I know it."
	"Who are you?" the doctor asked with a compressed whine.
	"Me?" Carl smiled coldly. In his three-piece suit, with the
stiff white collar standing up to the belligerent thrust of his jaw, he
had the appearance of an underworld muscleman. "I'm just a friend
of his."
	Dr. Blau followed Carl in a hurried shuffle. Carl walked
under the rose arbor, directly to the gate of Zeke's cubicle.
"ZeeZee, are you in there?" Carl called. "Get out here, sucker. It's
checkout time."
	Zeke was inspelled, sitting out of sight on his cot. An ocean
of light surged against him like breakers against a jetty. He had been
tranced since dawn. He had woken from a nightmare of a giant
trilobite devouring a screaming woman, and the fright that shocked
him awake vibrated with the relief of waking into the pelagic
rhythms of the Field.
	For three hours he had shot through the silvered surges like a
surfer. His body and its senses were merely the coast of his being,
the landfall of choice, where the freedom of the light in him found
will. But he was far away from that beach when Carl called to him.
The sound of his childhood name rose like an immense wave and
skimmed him directly to shore.
Zeke's eyes splashed open. He was hugely awake.

A generative energy coursed in the fibers of his meat, and his bones
felt weightless.
	"Zeebo, if you don't come out of there now," Carl spoke
loudly, "I'm coming in."
	Zeke unwound from his crosslegged position, stood up, and
got around the corner in time to see the mesh of the steel door flash
with diamond-hard light and clang o$' its stone-rooted-hinges.
	The glare hazed away, and he saw the stocky silhouette of a
well-dressed man and behind him the skinny shade of Dr. Blau.
	Colors swarmed into focus, and he was facing a man whose
cinderblock shape, with much imagination; contained the formerly
shapeless body of Carl Schirmer.
	"You!" Zeke's breath jumped, though just an inch behind his
startlement, he was emptiness itself. The prophecy had come true:
Harsh reality was a dream. He played his part: "I had given up
hope." '
	"I guess that's why I'm here," Carl replied. .He was stunned by
Zeke's appearance. The man before him was a Blake etching come
to life: job-bearded, the gelid light -in his broad stare holy as health.
"Let's get out of here. This place is creepy."
	"No," Dr. Blau said flatly, his hair friseured by the ionization
of the blast, his face pale as a fishbelly. "You can't go yet. I must
speak with you. Who are you?"
	"I told you," Carl said. "I'm his friend."
	"I'm his friend, too," the doctor said. "You must tell me what
is going on. How did you do this?" He gestured at the broken, metal-
twisted hinges and the fallen gate.
	"Don't you recognize him?" Zeke said in a voice like dust.
"It's Alfred Omega."
	Carl shot him a surprised stare. Alfred Omega had not
appeared in Shards of Tine, and Carl was uneasy
about his identity being revealed. There was the warehouse in
Barlow to protect.
	"Let's go, ZeeZee." Carl took Zeke's arm and guided him
out of the cell.
	``Wait a sec." Zeke freed his arm. "I have to get
something." He skipped back into the cell, and while he was
gone, Dr. Blau approached Carl.
	"Alfred Omega," the doctor said, his voice fugal with fear
and awe. "That's the name Zeke began using in his delusions
after he arrived here. Have you been in contact with him? Is
this some ploy?"
	Carl looked at him, bored.
	"How did you blast open this gate?" The doctor looked
again at the hinges, which were not blasted so much as ripped.
"Who are you?"
	"Doc," Carl said gently, "the world is stranger than you'll
ever guess."
	Zeke reappeared with a black-and-white school
composition notebook under his arm. "The journal of my
madness," he said with a smile bright as a joke. "It's all real,
isn't it? Timesend? The urg?"
	"More real than this place, buddy." Carl took his arm
again. "Let's skip."
	Zeke allowed himself to be led. Outside, where the
morning sunlight drifted like sawdust over the garden, he saw
the other patients standing at their gates, watching with mute
wonder.
	The diagnostic room was crowded with attendants, but
no one moved to stop Carl and Zeke until they reached the
examining room. There, the largest of them jumped out from
behind a portable partition and locked Carl's arms in a bearhug.
Two others grabbed Zeke.
	A whipcrack of voltage hissed very loudly, and the
bearhugger was cast backward like an unstrung marionette. His
stupefied bulk slammed into the pursuing

Dr. Blau and knocked him onto the floor so hard he
plunged into unconsciousness. The two men holding Zeke let
him go.
	The limousine drove them back into Manhattan. On the
return trip, in the privacy of the soundproofed interior, Carl
and Zeke faced each other in luminous silence for a long time.
	Carl spoke first: "You've changed, ZeeZee."
	"I've changed?" They laughed helplessly.
	"How did you know?" Carl asked when he found his
breath. "Shards of Time tells what happened to me better than
I can."
	"I wrote it, yeah. But only after I witnessed it. I don't
really know how. I think it's some kind of inertial resonance
between you and me. I was unconscious for a long time. Then
my ego was killed, and I began having what I call inspelling. I
think everybody has that power, but ordinary consciousness
has filters that dampen the inspells to moods which most
people, in the blustery course of their lives never even notice.
There are so many more important things going on-like
getting published and tenured, like making a success of a ratty
Irish pub. Madness heals that misdirection, man. We're
running one path, and only the dying and the mad know it:
Yeah, well, I found that out when I couldn't get anyone to
believe me."
	Zeke informed Carl of his image captured in the
bathroom mirror. "Everyone thought it yeas a fake. No one
believed his senses. And the few that did said, 'So what? A
man turned to light. What can we do, think, or feel about it?
It's an epiphenomenon. A once-only event. Forgot it.' I
couldn't buy that. I know you, buster. I knew you weren't a
bodhisattva or a Christ="
	"Thanks."
	"I just mean-what happened to you wasn't supernatural.
There had to be reasons. And I looked for
them. But I didn't find anything certain until my quest had
tortured me free of any hope. Hope that I would be
understood. By then I was in Cornelius, and they were hitting
me with drugs. The inspelling turned to surges, heavy
hallucinations. I'm still streaming, man."
	"I can tell. You sound like a flashback to the Sixties. But
you wrote Shards of Tinie before the shrinks got you, right?"
	"Yeah. My imagination was the gateway to the truth. I
know it's true now, but then it was a fantasy. A lot's happened
to my awareness since that time. And your -showing up is the
most enormous miracle of all. But enough of my blathering-
look at you! Squirm, you're a frigging bulldog now. I want to
hear you tell the story"
	'Carl told it, and Zeke listened with a face bright as noon.
His eyes bugged when Carl showed him the light lance. He
handled it with the reverence of a priest. "Nothing like this was
in your book," Carl said. "In your story, Eve and Ken live
happily ever after in Timesend. But in my life she was taken by
the zotl. And now here I am warehousing pig manure; three
people dead, and maybe even Evoe. It's crazy" .
	"It's crazier even than that," Zeke told him after a
respectful pause.
	The emotions that his retelling had churned went still in
Carl. "What do you mean?"
	"I mean, the urg-the eld skyle, whatever you want to call it-
it didn't tell you the truth:"
	"About what?"
	"The eld skyle told you that the Werld was inside the
cosmic black hole. The final black hole. There's no such thing."
	"Why would it lie?"
	"It. was easier," Zeke replied, smiling thinly as a

philosopher. "You see, there no end to the universe. It's
forever."
	"Yeah, the multiverse. I've heard of that. But our own
universe is-just a bubble, expanding now but eventually
collapsing in on itself and maybe starting over again."
	"That's the contemporary myth, and that's why the eld
skyle told you that. It knew you would believe it. If you'd been
a medieval European, it would have told you you'd made it to
the empyrean. To a Babylonian the urg would call itself
Utnapishtim and welcome you to Aralu. "
	..'Why?..
	"I told you. It's easier. The truth is too strange."
	"Well-don't keep me hanging. What do you know, and
how do you know it?"
	"I don't know it, Carl. I feel it, when the surges come on
me. I've seen that the universe is eternal. It's an infinite
continuum, Squirm. There's no final collapse. And there's no
Big Bang."
	"Come off it, Zee." He looked at his friend with eyes still
slippery from laughing. "What about the cosmic temperature
the radio telescopes found?"
	"The background radiation of space is not the relict
temperature of the Big Bang. It's the heat of the Field, the
inertial unity of the continuum. A black hole is not a
permanent grave, either. A black hole grows. The energy it
swallows is locked into it by its gargantuan gravity, right? Well,
inside the almost absolute zero cold shell of its event horizon,
it's the hottest object in the cosmos. Eventually, its heat gets so
unbelievably intense that even gravity breaks down--and the
black hole blows up! It's not an immense explosion. Nothing
like a supernova. The enormous gravitational and magnetic
fields muffle the blast, and the star plasma and synchrotron
radiation are channeled by lines of force to both poles,
where they jet into space. Over time, the material is recycled into
new stars, and the press begins again."
	"So where is the Werld if there is no final black hole?"
	"It probably. is a gravity vacuole in a colossal black hole one
hundred and thirty billion years from now, nearing the time of its
own explosion. But where is now? I'd bet this earth isn't the earth
you knew before the urg caught you."
	"You're right. Where I come from, there was a second world
war, we've only gone to the moon twice, twenty million people
starve to death each year, and we've been teetering on the brink of
nuclear war for decades."
	"Sounds like a real shitpot. You must be glad you got out."
	"I'd be happier with Evoe, where I belong."
	Zeke took Carl's arm in a grip like rage. "Take me with you
when you go back!"
	Carl shrugged indifference. "It's a bizarre place, ZeeZee."
	"I've got to see it. I'll sit with pigshit for a couple of months
and contribute my inertia to the lynk."
	"There may be no way back once we get there."
	"There's nothing here for me to come back to. I'm a lunatic in
this world."
	"Well, we're not through with this place just yet. It'll be two
months before the lynk is ready to go. Caity and Sheelagh know
about me. I got a little overgenerous with them, and last night one
of the. Werld's less docile beasts-a blood beetle-dropped through
the lynk corridor to the apartment where we're staying. I was just
lucky it wasn't zotl or a gumper hog. I had to explain."
	"No kidding. Do they accept what you've told them?"

	"I think so. My light lance put them into a trance, and I left
them sleeping."
	The conversation shifted to their shared past, and Carl learned
that earth-two had a St. Tim's where a muscular Zeke Zhdarnov
once protected a wimpy Squirm from the abuses of the older kids.
But Zee's parents hadn't died in Poland after shipping him to an
aunt in Newark who died before he got to her. His parents were
killed in a Hoboken house fire. And instead of Nam, ZeeZee had
served three years in the World Guard and with the Corps of
Workers, quelling riots in Jakarta and Singapore and harvesting rice
in Laos. The parallels with earth-one were approximate but
consistent.
	Back at the Sutton Place apartment, they found Caitlin and
Sheelagh awake in the living room before the wide windows,
watching the East River slide to the sea. They both had drinks in
their hands.
	"I got Zeke out, girls," Carl said in a rhythm of friendly banter.
	They watched him with the feral solemnity of witches. "So
now it's a fugitive we have to contend with," Caitlin said darkly.
"Excuse me, Zeke." Her face melted to a sisterly warmth, troubled
with regret, and she went over and kissed him on the cheek, though
he looked like a wild mountain man. Her face darkened again as she
faced Carl. "You have to stop now, Carl, and examine your soul
before you damage-or destroyany more lives."
	Carl stood squat and mute as a bureau. Sheelagh looked on
from nearby, wanting to go to him, but held back by Zeke's mad
presence.
	"Nothing's wrong with my soul, Caity," he said. "I've lived a
new life. And I'm going back to it, as soon as my work is done here.
But while I'm -here I wanted to see you again and share my
blessings, strange as they are."
	"Carl, I'm glad you've come back to us," Caitlin said, though
her voice had a shiver of uncertainty in it. "And there may be hope
for you, though you've got the mark of the invisibles on you.
They've made you beautiful in this world. They've eaten your old,
face. Even so, you still have your soul. But you have to give up any
thought of going back."
	Carl's slack face hardened. "Caitlin, what are you saying? I
have to go back."
	"No, you don t." Pins of light gleamed in her hard stare. "You
can renounce this whole thing while you still have. a breath of life.
Don't you see? You've been entranced. You're dealing with the
invisibles-the faery folk! You can't take Anything of theirs and hope
to keep your own freedom.
	"it's not that way," Carl answered with a disappointed sigh.
"The eld skyle is a being like us. Zpke can tell, you. It's an organism
in five dimensions. It lives, thinks, and dies just as we do, only it's
not human."
	"And not God-minded, either," the old woman stated. "It
wants a demon offering. It wants pig dung. Don't you know about
the Pig?"
	Carl shook his head sadly.
	"The Pig is the old god of the first Druids," Caitlin went on.
"It's a god-pig. Not swine but the power of swine in all of us. The
Kingdom of God is within. And
sIs the hunger and the demonic cunning of the Pig. It
o s is the malevolence of the old kingdoms, the beast-time, before
the sacraments: The invisibles get their power from our animal
selves, our oldest ancestors. You mustn't let them ally with the Pig
in you."
	"Caity." Carl took her hands in his and held her milky gaze with
his leveled stare. "These are not spirits 'I'm talking about. They're not
faeries. They're aliens."
	"Aliens. Spirits. Faeries. What does it matter what we call
them?" Her grip of his hands was cold. "You say

you' want to share your blessings with us, but you've only
frightened us, Carl. And that beast that followed you here from hell
could have killed us. What was that, if not a demon? it would have
been better if you'd kept your money and left us alone. Look at
yourself. You've got their mark on you. And unless you give up
their way, you're doomed. For eternity"
	Carl's eyebrows shrugged, and he let her hands go. "I guess I'm
doomed, then." He sat down, dispirited. "I've brought nothing but
trouble with me', all for some pig crap. Amazing. I think I'll just go
back to the mountains until it's time for me to leave."
	"You can't leave, Carl," Caitlin grumbled. "You'll lose your
soul."
	"Worse than that," Sheelagh spoke up. Her face was
boisterous with emotion. "The world will lose you. We need you
here. You have powers no one else does. There's so much you could
accomplish."
	"Listen to her, Carl," Caitlin said. "You belong here." She
turned to Zeke. "What do you think, Zeke? Are we wrong?"
	Zeke looked up at her from the sofa A where he had plopped
down. "You want the opinion of a madman?" He was still
humming with the light from his last surge at Cornelius. The
polychrome faces looking at him were friendly but stiff as masks.
	"I don' t believe you're really mad," Caitlin answered. "You're
cursed with Carl. I don't know how the Lord lost you two boys.
That book you wrote is a devilwork. How could you know what
was happening to Carl at the end of time unless you were possessed
by demonic powers?"
	"What makes you think the power is demonic?" Zeke asked,
his arms crossed behind his head.
	"What good has it done?" Caitlin riposted. "So far you're just
a freak."
	"Zeke the freak." He laughed gustily. "Sheelagh and
Caitlin are right, Squirm. We've been too selfish."
	"Selfish?" Carl rose up in his leather chair, amazed.
"You've been in an insane asylum until an hour ago."
	"Because I was selfish," Zeke explained, sitting up from the
sofa. His eyes buzzed, and he spoke like a machine gun: "I had
incredible knowledge there-the hyperaware vantage of my surges-
but I never used that knowledge. I wanted the knowledge to act on
me-to save me. Just as you've surrendered to your armor and let it
think and even act for you. We've been slaves to ourselves. We
have to free the restraints of our fate and act creatively"
	"What are you saying?" Sheelagh asked.
	"That we should combine our resources and apply them
toward a noble goal," he responded in a burning. voice.
	"That's comic-book philosophy, buddy," Carl interjected.
"Besides, I already have my goal. I'm going back to the Werld and
freeing Evoe."
	"And what about us?" Sheelagh cried, the mica of tears
flashing in her eyes. "You can't deprive the whole world of the
wonders you've been given just for one woman."
	"I'm going back," Carl said strongly. "I only looked you up to
share my fortune for a time. Don't make me sorry I know you."
	"Hey, look," Zeke interceded. "We all have to compromise a
little to get some good out of this unexpected life. Sheelagh, Caitlin-
we can't ask him to stay here with us forever. This isn't even his
earth. But, Carl, while you're here, you must use the power you
have to make a positive difference in the world."
	"I'm not a , crusader, ZeeZee. " Carl was feeling harried. He
had expected gratitude from his friends, not demands.

	"We're not asking you to quell our riots for us," Zeke
clarified. "But with your imp card, you could defuse the riots at
their source. You could fill in the economic gaps that have
frustrated millions."
	"Yeah, and I'll probably wind up destabilizing the whole
world market," Carl added.
	"Don't play God, Carl," Caitlin warned. "You're right to
know that no good can come of that."
"Let the scientists see your lance and your card,
Sheelagh suggested. "They could learn about stuff they never
thought existed."
	"Nah," Zeke objected. ":Too many cooks and we'll lose our
soup. We have to work secretly."
	"Satan works in secrecy," Caitlin admonished.
	Carl got up and went to the window to stare across at the
riverlit cliffs: His friends continued their debate behind his back.
Their voices sloshed around him abstractly, for he was listening to
them the way a Foke would, hearing English voices as boiling
sounds, meaningless. Outdoors, the burning zero of the sun hung
over the boxes where people lived in this world. The narrowness of
those boxes and the sharp heat from the blinding pan of light in the
sky choked him with strangeness.
	He wanted to go home.
The Decomposition
	Notebook
	A great battle raged against the twilight. Above a stand of
palms, the bluebright strokes of tracer bullets lanced the darkness,
sparking from the hulks of two hovering Hueys. A 2.5 rocket
streaked from one of the helicopters and exploded in the bamboo.
The red flash eeried the landscape, revealing the long body of a
river.
	By the fireflash, the enemy could be seen splashing through
the milky water, driving a herd of water buffalo before them. The
cattle bellowed with terror as the 20mm fire from the helicopters
pounded into them. White phosphorus grenades glared with hurting
brilliance among the advancing buffalo, and instantly the battle was
cut into diamond clarity.
	PFC Zeke Zhdarnov hunched deeper into the slick mud
beneath the riverbank's root-tangle. The M-16 he clutched wobbled
with his fear as he witnessed the immensity of the assault. Beyond
the onrush of the

black herd, a battalion of NVA crowded the streambed. Dozens of
them were climbing the glacis, scrambling up the side of the hills,
clutching their SKS carbines with bayonets fixed. Zeke turned a
frantic glance to the RTO sitting above him in the root-tangle.
'They're outflanking us! Let's get out of here."
But the radio operator sat unmoving.
	Zeke twisted about on the mudbank and, pulled himself
upward by the loops of vine and root. The PRC-25 on the
operator's back was smashed, and by the echolight of the
phosphorus, he saw death in the man's face. From somewhere
above, a familiar voice was shouting: "Get the cows!"
	Two bullets sucked past Zeke's head and made the RTO's
body jump with their impact.
	"Medic! Medic!"-the cries arose out of the dark, and Zeke
lurched over the rootweave toward them. -The air was blue with
bullets. Buffalo cried, and men screamed. The roar of the choppers
narrowed closer.
	Zeke bellycrawled into a foxhole. "RT's dead and there's a
whole battalion coming down the river," he chattered to the field
officer there.
	"Get hold, soldier," the sergeant barked into his face, seizing
Zeke's trembling shoulders. "The choppers will break the assault."
He spun Zeke about: "Now get up and fire."
	The rattle of a .50 machine gun sluiced from close by but
Zeke forced himself into a standing position and opened up with
his M-16, firing into the blackness of the river.
	At the far end of the stream, sunset illuminated the water
with blood colors. Earlier that day, Zeke had helped to shovel a
ton of rice from a captured VC cache into the river. Now, that rice
had swollen and dammed the waterflow. In the glare of mortars, he
could see the corpses of cows and soldiers bobbing in the swollen
stream. Fifty black-clad figures were rushing along the bank
where the command post had been.
	"CF's down!" Zeke cried to the sergeant behind him.
"Charlie's all over it."
	"1 know that, son. We're alone up here."
	"Christi" The word was brittle with the shakes from his
,gun. The enemy were mounting the rootweave where he had
just been. In moments, he would be overrun.
	Then, the sky shook. Both Hueys made a run over the
bamboo, the M-79 grenade launchers in their noses blasting a
hundred rounds into the mudbanks.
	"Sergeant	let's go!" Zeke bawled against the thun-
der of the explosions.
	The sergeant shook his head. "They'll chew us up in the
bambool Stay low. Wait for the choppers."
	Zeke fired a stream of bullets into the nightshadows
before his rifle clip was empty. His cartridge belt was also
exhausted, and he unholstered his .38 revolver.
	The night curdled bright and hot, and the men looked up
to see that one of the Hueys had been hit by a rocket. Its tail
burst into an orange fireball, and the body of the ship careened
wildly into the, dark bamboo field. A wall of flame erupted,
and its ghastly glow silhouetted the advancing enemy.
	The second Huey pulled upward, veered away, and
barreled into the night.
	The sergeant cursed. "We're on our own, soldier.
Scramble." He heaved out of the foxhole, and Zeke hustled
right behind him. Bullets buzzed in the air. They dashed ten
feet, and a volley splattered the sergeant's head into gravel.
	Zeke dropped to his belly and writhed hard and fast
toward the tall grass, the earth kicking up all around him.
When he rolled into a cane brake, he wiped the sergeant's
blood off his face. Terror made his

breathing ache. He was going to die. He thought of Eleanor,
the woman he had left behind in New York. Her gray eyes
watched him sadly. NVA shadows flickered over the foxhole
he had deserted and loomed closer.
	Zeke convulsed awake. He trembled with the cold current
of the nightmare and stared about the dark room for
something familiar. He saw the light-flaked skyline of
Manhattan, and he remembered that this was the apartment
Carl had purchased on the Upper West Side. Through the
open door of the bedroom, he could see the colorless hulks of
furniture and the smeared light from the windows facing the
Hudson.
	He sat up and rubbed the tension out of his face. The
war nightmares had begun after Carl had gotten him out of
the asylum. Carl said they were Zeke's memories from his duty
tour of Southeast Asia on war-hunted earth-one. Zeke had
shaved his beard and clipped back his long white hair to the
close lines of a Marine cut, hoping to ground those night
terrors in the peaceful earth-two of his awake world.
	Zeke's personal memories of Vietnam were serene. He,
like most able-bodied world citizens, had served with the
COW, the Corps of Workers that had begun upgrading global
living conditions seventy years before and was going strong
under World Union leadership. He had been stationed in
Jakarta and had been transferred to the Mekong Delta to help
with flood relief during the monsoons. He recalled a land of
mosquitoes, stone lanterns, and an industrious, sylvan-thin
people. They had appreciated his help, and they had shared
their traditions with him. So why did he dream of spraying
liquid fire on them and counting their charred bodies?
	Carl had tried to explain earth-one to him-a war-world
fragmented by battlelines called borders, a
world of fantastic death machines and immense plunder where
corporations amassed billions of dollars in profits by exploiting
undeveloped nations and natural resources while in less organized
regions millions of people starved to death continually. Carl had
tried to explain capitalist economy and the motivations of self-
interest as well as the tyrannical failure of socialist societies, but
that made little sense to Zeke's earth-two mind. Economy to him
and in his world was based on human interest, not personal or
social interest. Capitalism and communism were both wrong.
Human dignity was the only political force that made sense after
the Great War, *and human dignity was not possible when a few,
any few, had power and authority over the many. To govern, on
earth-two, meant personal sacrifice. Sacrifice and devotion were
synonyms for all earth-two leaders. Those who chose to be leaders
had to surrender their personal lives and serve the good, not of a
,faction or a race, but of the whole planet. It was an ideal that had
become real after earth-two had almost extinguished itself.
Earthone would have to go the same path, Zeke realized, and until
it did, it was no better than a monument to Death, a planet of
atrocities.
	Despite his elaborate rationalisms, the nightmares came
anyway. Zeke suppressed the urge to wake Carl and talk it out with
him. The man was helpful and a good friend but not the friend
Zeke remembered. The urg had changed him. The restlessly jovial
idealistic neurotic that was Squirm had become an insouciant
watcher, waiting for his chance to return to the Werld. Zeke had
been out of the Cornelius Psychiatric Hostel for-five weeks now,
and he still was not adjusted to the great change in his friend.
	Zeke sighed and flicked on the tensor lamp on his nightstand.
He opened his journal and reviewed the entries from the last few
weeks. Above each entry, he

had penciled in the countdown to the day Carl had taken him out
of the asylum:
Five weeks before Alfred Omega
	I've been pondering the chemical truth of who I
am. The conspectus is this:
	My madness is caused by an irreversible inhibition
of, the monamine oxidase (MAO) in my brain. This
happened initially as a result of the inspelling that put
me in the asylum seven months ago. Dr. Blau mistook
my inspelling for depression. ;How else could he have
diagnosed me? He didn't have the imagination to suspect
that within the listless shell of my disconnected
personality I was surging with life power, surfing the
spatiotemporal wavefront of Being itself, where time
breaks into Mind.
	Anyway, I must have looked sunken, for the good
doctor pumped me with iproniazid, an antidepressant
that inhibits MAO. MAO regulates the synthesis and
utilization of neurotransmitters like serotonin, and it
muffles the effect of the methylated tryptamines the
doctor is administering to wake me up. With my MAO
knocked out, the neurotransmitters proliferate in my
brain, amplifying my inner experiences--weirdly.
	The surges I am experiencing are waves r of these
backed-up methylated tryptamines converting into the
substrates for enzymes like N-methyl transferase and hydroxy-
indole Omethyl transferase. Those enzymes not only
stimulate the production of more methylated
tryptamines, they're also psychotomimetic--they're
hallucinogens!
	The great space of stillness that I had
found in my inspelling and from which I had
written Shards of Time is suddenly wild with
bizarre images and pulsations. During a surge,
my heart hums like a grenade; ready to blast
me to nothing. My blood caulks with fear, and
furious thoughts of escape cross my brain like
clawtracks. 	`
	That's the demon-world the Bardo masters
warn about. The tryptamines have put me in touch
with the tortured soul of the world, the wounded
dream we call the unconscious. Actually, there is
nothing un-about it. It should be called the
metaconscious and our feeble, biology-limited
awareness the unconscious. It is alive with gods and
demons. The demons are psychoids, dismembered
terrors and hungers hacked free of the physical world
and existing solely in psychic space. They are the
terrible forces that go ahead of our hope and
muddle our best intents. In my life, the worst have
been anger for fear's sake, lust-riddled attention; and,
of course, the balloon-man with his grand, self-
inflating delusions.
	There, also, is God-the Archon-the metapsychic
organizing power: the formless shaper of form. Its
presence electrocutes me with feeling, shocking me
free of rationality, time, even center.

Three weeks before Alfred Omega
	I'm grateful for this time of horror. In the
asylum of the State, with my bodily reeds attended,
my mind is free to be the horror.

Where Nature would have killed me, the State
preserves me that I may know the horror and
speak.
	am the Horror. The skulled mind. The
weight of a scream on the tongue. The cold in the
lungs as the bloodfires go out.

Two weeks before Alfred Omega
	The demon psychoids and the Archon are still
here, insidious and strong as they ever were, but
now I recognize them in their subtlest shades. I see
how they think me. I realize that my personal mind
is an illusion.
	The clear windows of our perceptions are
actually the glimmerings from the Archon's
luminous selves on the inside shell of the monad
that is each of us.
	I find myself sitting exactly 'at the center of an
opaque, colorless bubble big as the universe. Reality
happens around me, and I reach out and radiate my
energies into the immensity, wanting to be a star.
One week before Alfred Omega
	Chemical "madness" has collapsed me into the
center of my monad. I'm becoming a black hole,
locking into myself through the immense gravity of
the metaconscious.
	The illusion of individuality is almost gone. My
pen is a rivering of Change, my hand is the story it
writes, and I am

One week before Alfred Omega (twelve hours later)
the pivot of stillness before a falcon dives.
Alfred Omega
Squirms return: The black hole has exploded!
Twenty-eight days after Alfred Omega
	Withdrawal was explosive. Deprived of
iproniazid and the other drugs, the Archon
vanished, and the black hole of my hallucination
exploded into the thin colors of skulllocked ordinary
reality.
	Only, reality ain't ordinary no more. Carl has
come back from Timesend as Alfred Omega! I feel
that I've burst into another universe where my
madness is reality. What I thought I was imagining is
real( These very words are quashed by the weight of
their meaning, so it must read as if I'm insane. If the
iproniazid and the rest of those mind chemicals
hadn't been stopped, the irreality would have broken
my mind. We need our brains to protect us .from
reality.
	It's taken me a month to get up the nerve to
write again. I know I should at least outline what's
happened in the last twenty-eight days, but I'm still
gonging with implications. I must understand who
I am. How is it possible that I could write Shards of
Time and describe exactly what was happening to
Carl? I wasn't drugged, except by my adrenals from
the anxiety of those exiled days. My writing,
somehow, was telepathic-but what is telepathy?
Lord knows, I can't do it at will, anymore.
	I at least have some idea how I may have
known things I could not have known while I was
in Cornelius. Chad would be amused

just long enough to ask me for another winner. I
think my body acted something like a cross between
an antenna and a hologram.
	The tryptamine soaking my brain had an affinity
for synaptic DNA and replaced the serotonin that
usually bonds with the RNA receptor sites in the
synapse. The tryptamine inserted itself in the RNA by
pi-cloud stacking across the hydrogen bonds linking
the two bases. The result was a charge-transfer, that
is, an electron passed from the RNA to an empty
energy band on the tryptamine. The swift bonding
twisted the helix, and because this was happening in
the electric field of my synapses, an electromagnetic
signal was generated. The wave was instantly
absorbed by low-energy electrons in the tryptamine,
saturating their energy bands. That canceled the
polarization of the base pairs, and the RNA rung
rejoined, priming itself for the next charge-transfer.
This oscillation broadcast its own signal in harmonic
resonance with all the RNA-bonded tryptamine in all
the synapses of my body, setting up a three-
dimensional standing waveform inside my skull and
turning my brain into a radio-cybernetic matrix.
Information flooded into me from
hyperdimensional realms. I experienced telepathy,
conscious projection outside my body, and a spooky
ability to predict events. f was turned on.

Thirty-two days after Alfred Omega
	Carl has no idea who he is. He thinks he's a
man. I've tried to tell him: There are no men,
and there are no women. There are only fields of
force.
	Our bodies are starships. The Archon has spent
four billion years building them. The equipment is
all there, inside us, as our neurology, but the demons
keep the Lord from using us. Ile demon psychoids
of the unconscious have possessed all ten billion of
the, humans that have ever lived. Only a few of us
have sensed the Archon. And of them, only a
handful have consciously learned how to activate that
power in our own bodies.
Thirty-six days after Alfred Omega
	Aeschylus expressed -it well when he had Prometheus
say: 		-

I caused men to no longer foresee their death. I planted
firmly in their hearts blind hopefulness.

	Carl has stolen fire from the Archon. The lance
makes him a god among us. Yet he remains
enraptured by his momories of Eves. Perhaps I
should be thankful the archon of
- love has claimed him rather than the archon of
power. I'm sure that's the doing of the urg. It wants
Carl back. The inertial displacement between them
must be immense, and every' cell in Carl's body must
be craving to return to the Werld. No wonder
dominance of this faraway planet seems puny.
	But I have no inertial homecalling to dampen
my imagination or quell my will to power. Carl has
seen me looking at the lance in reverie. It is not the
power itself I crave:

The power is a shadow of the metaconscious.
The lance is merely a symbol of what I want.
	"A balmy wind spills off the Hudson," Zeke wrote,
watching a breeze unpleat the drapes of his window and fill
the bedroom with the smell of the river. "I've nightmared
Nam again. Like everything of this temporary earth that tries
for something greater, my mind strains to understand why I
am living in two different worlds, one of peace and one of
pain. The answer I sense through my inspelling is almost
unbearable: Contrastive thinking is an elaborate hallucination.
Worse, it is the viper I have mistaken for a rope."
	Zeke turned off the light, and in the shuttered darkness, a
hypnagogic spun before him. It was a retinal mandala, a
rosemaling of torn limbs and glutinous napalm-melted flesh,
all blurring together in the surfglow of his closed eyes. Before
shutting his journal, he wrote in it by feel:
	"The hand is not different from what it writes down."

	Galgul was a cloud of rubble. Two black spheres and three
cracked egg shapes were the only traces of order in an
amorphous sprawl of floating debris. Blasttwisted shards of
metal and coils of black dust looped with the fallpaths.
Anything organic had been seared to ash by the firestorm that
had gulfed the exploded, structures. Inert, jagged forms
hovered like a black aura around the ruins of Galgul.
	Five of the twelve clustered city-spheres had been
destroyed. Their three-kilometer-wide plasteel shells had been
shattered into junk by a gravity wave that had bounded out of
a lynk in one of the spheres. The lynk had connected with a
four-space, positively curved stellar zone one hundred and
thirty billion light-years
away. Three zotl needlecraft had established the lynk after
following a Foke-shaped gravity echo into the Rim. The conclusion
was obvious. A Rimstalker had armored a Foke, had sent him to a
Foke-fertile planet where the food lure to the zotl would be
irresistible, and had used the lure to attack the zotl through their
own lynk. The plan had been a cunning and devastatingly effective
one.
	Like two spider gods, the remaining city-spheres of Galgul
hung in a web of broken metal, misty against the whorl of the
Cloudriver. The broken hulks of the ruined spheres dangled like
torn roots among clots of fused metal. Needlecraft sparkled among
the rocksmoke and the avalanches of destroyed shapes.
Camouflaged by the tumult of devastation were jumpships, black
boomerangs with laser cannon, waiting in ambush for any Foke or
Rimstalker aggression.
	Zotl and Rimstalkers had warred since the zotl first arrived in
the Werld, seventy-two cycles ago. Though the two species
occupied the two distant poles, a Werld apart, they were both four-
space creatures, and they conflicted in the tesseract range that
contained the Werld. Their battles were timeflux distortions in
superspace, and they fought over which species would occupy the
narrow tetrad vector field that connected the Werld with the
multiverse.
	The Rimstalkers had dominated this gateway to infinity for
the three hundred cycles of their time in the Werld before the zotl
arrived. Rimstalker technology was by far the most advanced, but
zotl four-space awareness was innately more adroit. After forty
cycles of zotl incursions into the disputed tetrad vector. field, the
spider people established a beachhead and, by dint of their elusive
four-space awareness, were able to evade Rimstalker timeflux
distortions and develop a lynk technology of their own. In another
two or three

cycles, .they would have begun establishing a multiversal empire.
	The zotl had been taken by surprise when the Rimstalkers
abandoned their superspace forays to attack Galgul with a three-
space gravity wave. Within moments, the zotl capital had been
reduced to ruins. Only two city-spheres were left intact. Three
were crippled, and the rest utterly demolished. And now, Foke-zotl
food-were using the rubble-clogged fallpaths to penetrate zotl
defenses and sabotage the cleanup and repair work.
	This was the darkest time the zotl had known in the Werld,
and their keening warbled across the tesseract range to Rataros,
where the Rimstalkers were equally shocked. They had issued the,
armor to Carl Schirmer as a favor to an eld skyle that had opened a
channel to the tetrad vector 'field when the Rimstalkers were in
need. Unlike the zotl, the Rimstalkers did not rely on organic
sustenance. Their nourishment came directly from the hyperphotons
of the tetrad vector field, and when the zotl began to expropriate
vast swaths of the tetrad field for their own expansionist strategies,
Rimstalkers starved.
	Eld skyles, as five-space beings, were in a position
to direct the four-space vector field to some degree.
One eld skyle had been able to channel enough hyper-
photons to save the lives of over a thousand Rimstalkers.
In return, the Rimstalkers had armored Carl and sent
him to fetch the three-space substance that the eld
skyle needed for its own survival. 	''
	. The Rimstalkers had never guessed that the zotl would detect
the fraction-of-a-second echo in the tetrad field, let alone follow it
to its destination. That the armor had demonstrated the wit and
initiative to wait for, the zotl to set up a lynk and then use the zotl
lynk to assault Calgul was not as surprising. The armor, after
all, had its own artificial intelligence loyal to its creators,
and it was only slightly hampered by the emotional organ
the creature it occupied called a brain.
But now the Rimstalkers had a problem.
	If the Rimstalkers had planned this offensive, they would
have used a light lance with the power to destroy all of Galgul.
Instead, the zotl had been badly hurt but not eliminated. The Foke
harassing them could not hope to overcome them. So, in a cycle or
two, the zotl would be back in the tetrad vector field and more
aggressive than ever.
	Some of the Rimstalkers wanted to armor more Foke and
direct an assault against the remnants of Galgul. But that idea was
dismissed at once in the face of the realization that the zotl, if
pressed to the wall, could use their budding lynk technology to
disrupt the gravity matrix that gave the Werld its shape and collapse
the entire Werld into, the black hole that held them all.
	The Rimstalkers understood: A three-space war against the
zotl was. out of the question. They had to capitulate.
	In return for a zbtl agreement to stay out of the tetrad vector
field for five cycles and then only to occupy regions designated by
the Rimstalkers, the Rimstalkers acknowledged that the gravity
wave that had blasted Galgul was an accident, not the prelude to a
three-space war. As a token of retribution, the Rimstalkers gave the
zotl a light lance and armor of their own.
	The appeasement was tiny. The armor and lance were designed
to implode if their interiors were tampered with, so the zotl could
learn nothing from them. Also, they were useless anywhere near
Rataros, so they were no good against the Rimstalkers. The only
immediate use for the armored lance was as an instrument of
revenge. The Foke who had fired the gravity wave into

Galgul would be destroyed, and the Foke-fertile planet that had
served as a lure would become the first conquest of the zotl's
multiversal empire.
	To celebrate this new determination, the best of the
suspended Foke were revived and milked.
	The choice stock of Foke delicacies was located in one of the
mangled spheres. There, behind fumestained glastic panels, were
several thousand human bodies asleep in no-time. The myriads of
Foke were individually encapsulated and stacked upright to
facilitate -their gravity-pumped life support.
	Among the stock was a slender woman with a quiet face and
strawberry flecks in her drowsy gray eyes.
	"Evoe is alive," Zeke told Carl. Zeke's eyes were blurry with
drowsiness. His bear-sized frame leaned in the doorway to his
bedroom, his baggy black silk pajamas scarred with sleep creases.
	Carl had already shaved and dressed, though dawn was still a
dark hour away. He wore a beige pair of trousers, sneakers, and a
purple pullover sweater. He was sitting in the living room
practicing touch control with his lance by changing channels on the
TV from across the room. When he heard Zeke, his hand twitched,
and the TV flew off its stand and smashed into the wall. Sparks and
glass spurted, and Carl leaped up from the cushioned chair where he
was slouched. "tire you sure?"
	Zeke stepped over the shattered corpse of the TV and
stretched out on the sofa. "I saw her in Galgul," he replied in a
sleepwrung voice. "The place is a bigger mess than that TV You
really rocked it, buddy. Ewe's okay, though. I saw her in a kind of
suspended animation. The zotl are saving her for a special
dinnercommemorating the conquest of the earth."
	"You sure this is a real lynk-dream?" Carl asked, his head
effervescent with euphoria. He wanted to
believe him, but Zeke had been in a loose frame of mind since
Carl had gotten him out of Cornelius. His attention had been
wavery as a candleflame, and he had slept as much as he had
been awake. Carl had purchased a spacious apartment on
Claremont Avenue near Columbia University, and they had
holed up there while Zeke suffered through the withdrawal
from the chemistry set Dr. Blau had hooked into him over the
past year. Today was the first day that Zeke had woken with a
clear face, unscowled with confusion or pain.
	The last month had been tedious for Carl. Manhattantwo
was a quieter place than the New York he was used to. The
hum of the electric trafc was not audible from their top-floor
suite, and the serenity was driving him mad: He had used his
armor to visit all the round corners of the earth while Zeke
slept or Caitlin and Sheelagh were watching him. The
quiescence of the cities, the geometric order of the farmlands,
and the harmony of the people wherever he went spooked
him. The world was closing in on utopia, and with his
perpetual anxiety about Evoe and the zotl he felt out of place
and even dangerous to the world. He had already decided then
if Evoe was dead he didn't want to live. It sounded stupid, but
it felt right. So when Zeke told him she was alive, his blood
shimmered.
	The flesh of Zeke's face looked tired, yet the wakefulness
in his stare was strong as black coffee. "The hallucinations are
over," he announced. "The lynkdreams have begun again-only
now I know they're lynk-dreams."
	"What about your nightmares?"
	"I was in Nam again last night. Before Galgul. Still can't
figure out how. Some kind of inertial-"
	"--resonance," Carl said with him. "I know. What'd you
see in Galgul?"
	"Ruins. The fallpaths are so clogged with fired

debris you can walk on them. In one of the half-gutted spheres
there's a stock vault, ripped open to external view. I saw-tiers of
bodies stacked in transparent shells. They're all alive but
sleeping, waiting to be milked of their pain. Evoe was there. I
recognized her at oncefauny hair, flecked eyes, and those cheeks,
hollow as a cat's."
	Carl looked up to the ceiling and howled, arms outflung.
	"Don't get too excited," Zeke warned, when Carl was
done and his face, red and polished with joy, was looking at
him. "We've got some time left before we can lynk to the
Werld."
	"ZeeZee, you've just put meaning back into my life!"
	Zeke watched him somberly. "Well, you'd better hear the
rest of what's going on." He told him about the Rimstalkers
giving the zotl light lancer armor. "And you know it's you the
spider people are going to hit with that armor."
	.Carl's heart became a paperweight. "Maybe well get out of
here before they show up."
	His hopefulness cowed before Zeke's stare. With his head
and face shaved, Zeke had. the sober demeanor of a monk.
"You can't avoid them, Squirm," he said with certainty. "But
you don't have to fear them. You didn't destroy more than half
of Galgul. Your armor did. Let it' protect you."
	Carl spun about and ran both hands through his hair.
That gesture usually reassured him, reminding him that he had
been remade, that life was new. But now he felt closed in, and
he went to the tall sliding window gazing west over the
Hudson and opened it. The winter air cleared his sinuses.
	The dark sky seemed empty: in the direction his armor
told him to look. The lynk of his lance to the
Werld manifested in the space of his immediate vicinity and in
a larger probability zone a mile above his head, tilted twenty-six
degrees toward the north magnetic pole. The lynk space around
him was big enough only for human-sized transits like blood
beetles, which his lance could easily disperse as they appeared.
The jumpships and needlecraft would come in above him
where they could scatter quickly and avoid his lance fire-until
their own light lancer armor came through. His armor did not
know if it could match the zotl armor. .
	The wind turned, and the air smelled of burning leaves. A
new feeling glided in under his fear and elation, elusive as an
unwritten poem. It was -awe. "Geezus, Zeke," Carl said in a
slow voice. "It's strange."
	"It's always been strange," Zeke confirmed, "only now it's
gotten weird enough for you to notice." He sat up. One hand
tugged at the ghost of his white beard before finding his chin,
and he gazed at Carl, ruminative as Moses. "Carl, I've got to
talk with you."
	Carl turned from his window reverie. Zeke had never
appeared as composed as this before, and the poise in his stare
drew Carl closer. "What more can you possibly have to say?" he
asked, sitting in the plush chair beside the sofa.
	"Ever hear of Egil Skaldagrimson?" Zeke asked.
	'An uncle of yours?"
	"He was ancient Iceland's most original poet," Zeke said.
"But in his own day he was better known as a ferocious
manslaughterer called a berserkir. One day late in his life after
earning the fierce respect of his people as a warrior, a poet, and
an autocrat, he was out for a stroll. As he passed one of his
men who was bending over, adjusting a sandal, Egil swiftly
drew his sword and--zockl-cut the man's head off. The reason

he gave for doing it is famous: 'He posed so conveniently for a
blow."'
	Carl looked at his friend more closely to see if he was
launching into one of his ."surges." The strong face was as
sensible as the Buddha's. "Okay. So what about it?"
	"You're like Egil's soldier," Zeke replied. "You're picking
your toes. You carry a sword, but you've lost the spirit of the
sword."
	�` I'm not sure I follow you, old buddy," Carl confessed
in a piqued tone. "If you're worried about the zotl's surprising
me, dolt. My imp has a warning tone."
	"The enemy I'm worried about is you. You're in some
kind of trance."
	"Me?" Carl was surprised. "This is the first day since I got
here that I've seen both of your eyes working together."
	"Sure, I've been chemically pummeled. But you've been
adamized. You're supposed to be perfect."
	"I'm nowhere near it."
	"That's for sure. But to the urg, you're perfect. A perfect
gofer. It's got you locked into its strategy, friend. You have the
power, but your will has been castrated so that it won't
interfere."
	"Aw, cut it out, Zee." Carl sank back in the chair. "Caitlin's
been trying to save my soul. Sheelagh wants to make love to
me. And you think I'm a will-less zombie."
	"Not a zombie, just a sleepwalker." Zeke's bushy white
eyebrows, lifted. "And why don't you make love to Sheelagh?"
	Carl sat back as if slapped. "I'm in love, Zeebo.
Remember that feeling? It's a little ways north of lust."
	"Love has blinded you."
	"Blinded me to what?"
	"To power." Zeke's hand flashed out, and he picked
up the lance -from where Carl had placed it on the coffee table.
"This is powerl" He waved it under Carl's nose: "When are you
going to use it?"
"When I have to," Carl answered softly.
	"If you don't use the power you have, the will weakens,"
Zeke said, returning the lance.
	"Hey, keep in mind whose weak will uncanned you last
month."
	"I'll never forget it." Zeke smiled briefly. "But that was
last month. What've you done since?"
	"What's to do? I mean, the eld skyle didn't send me after
the Golden Fleece or the Grail. We're just waiting for the lynk
to convert some pig stool and then we're gone. Unless the zotl
stop us."
	"Forget the zotl." Zeke's gaze pressed into him. "If you're
just waiting for the lynk, why'd you come back for me? And
why'd you spill the beans to Caitlin and Sheelagh?"
	"What the hell are you driving at?"
	"Don't get excited." Zeke was glad to see that Carl could
get excited.
	"Just what are you trying to tell me? That I'm loose-
tipped?"
	"That you're talking in your sleep. The urg has put you in
a trance, and you're not seeing things clearly. If you're loose-
tipped it's because there's some of your old self left that
wonders what's going on. That's why you sought out your old
friends, to connect with your past and the old meaning of your
life. You've lost that, and now you don't know what's- up or
down."
	"And you do?"
	"I know only one thing for sure." He leaned closer.
"We're made out of light. And light is action."
	"Huh?"
	"Light is action." Zeke looked amazed. "Come on,
Squirm, you remember quantum theory: Light is trans

mitted in whole units. Those units are called quanta of
action. They're photons: Don 7t get me started on this
subject. The point I'm trying to make is this: All
creation acts. Continuously. There is no stillness. Even
the void between galaxies buzzes with Field particles.
Action is reality. For a human, that reality is choice.
You have to act positively, and by that I mean your
choices have to be creative, not historical."
	"All right, already ZeeZee. I get the idea. You think I'm
lazy"
	"Well, when's the last time you worked out?"
	"I don't believe this."
	"The urg gave you an adamized body, but how do you
expect to keep it strong without using it?"
	Carl was on his feet. "Riding a fallpath is a workout and a
half, believe me." He strode back to the window and slammed
it shut.
	"The only fallpath here is down."
	Carl shrugged. "My heart isn't here, Zeke. Working out's
too much of a pain. I'd just as soon wait till I get home."
	"That's a negative choice. Soon you'll be as flabby as you
ever were. You've got to stop avoiding pain, and you've got to
stop seeking your pleasure in some faraway future."
	"Why?"
	"It's been done to death, billions of times already. Those
are the historical choices. After all that's happened to you, you
can't just react. You've got to be creative."
	"But why?"
	"Because you've got the power, man." Zeke was standing
up. As he spoke, he wended his way around the coffee table
and over the gutted TV to Carl. "What's happened to you is
now. It's a mandate to be original, despite the pain. You've
got to use your body till it hurts. Use your brain till it's
exhausted. Don't seek
pleasure for its own sake. That's the game that trips up almost
everybody. Let the pleasure come to you on its own-and when it
comes, take it. And when it's gone, keep it a memory, not a hope.
Don't look for it. Keep your focus on what you can give to others
from the hurtfully alive center of yourself."
	"Spare me your philosophy," Carl asked in cold exasperation.
	Zeke looked down into him. "I would if there were any other
way to live without 'regrets."
	Carl ignored Zeke and turned his face toward the dark
window. He couldn't take his old friend seriously, because for one
thing, the man wasn't behaving at all like the ZeeZee he'd known
all his life. Carl figured that was the result of the huge difference in
earth-two's history: The Zeke he loved had come from a harder
world where he had killed and seen friends killed in war, where
death was meted out with the indifference of financial transactions--
a world where the spiritual beliefs that this Zeke espoused could
not be taken seriously. ZeeZee had given up all fantasies - of
dominance in Nam-and yet here was this look-alike ranting about
power. The inconsistency left Carl with a filthy feeling. as if the
memories, the life, the very flesh he was made of were not real. The
eld skyle had told him that he was shaped out of sludge. And this
world? Was it any different? It was made from star dung. The crap
of spent galaxies. Reality was shit. The horror, for him, was crazy
Zeke's belief that the cosmos was infinite. The Zee he knew, the
world he had known, believed the universe with all its brutal
ironies was doomed like the rest of them, as finite as everything
smaller than itself.
	The serrated aroma of fried onions and garlic accompanied the
chatter of hot oil from the kitchen, where Zeke had gone to
prepare a meal. Carl's ponderings

smoked away, and he stepped back. from the dark window.
The sun's blot was behind him and below the horizon, -but
charred-looking clouds glowed in the east like a dragon's
smoke-belch.
	The pleats of cooking odors were. a pale tease of memory,
hinting at the pungencies and savor of the Foke meals he had
known. For the thirty-seventh time in as many days, he craved a
braised slamsteak and stream-chilled owlroots. His stomach growled
like a rockcrusher, but he was too wrought to eat. He had to clear
his head.
	He told Zeke he was going out for a walk and took the stairs
fifteen floors down to the street. He was flushed when he got there
and satisfied. He wasn't lazy about using his body, as Zeke believed.
He was afraid to use it. If he gashed himself or if he even got a
nosebleed, he would probably be killed. The light lancer armor was
set to implode if his spore-carrying blood was spilled. .
	Carl had told no one about this, and Zeke for all his apparent
prescience had not found out.
	He walked down the steep hill of 116th Street and entered
Riverside Park. The dark blue of night was standing in the tree
clumps, and the plangent fragrance of the river drifted up the
terraced slopes. Why had he come back, really? Was he seeking
something from his past? Of course. Yet how could he tell this
Zeke about his fear of the armor? Not just the. anxiety of bleeding
and being collapsed smaller than an atom, but the cruelty of hosting
the armor's mind inside his ownthat terrified him. He had wanted
to talk about it, and so he had sought out his .old friends. They
were all stranger than he remembered them, though. Or was it the
armor mechanicking him that made them seem strange?
	The moon looked like a Quaalude over the Pali-
sades. The silvered clouds around it rhymed in his memory with the
griffons of cloud that strode through the open spaces of Midwerld.
Carl sat at an empty park bench, and in the long light remembered
Evoe. A youth went by, shouldering a radio big as an air
conditioner, and the music blaring through it was her song.

	Sheelagh was still asleep when Carl entered her apartment.
Several weeks ago, in a schoolgirlish rush of love and gratitude, she
had given him the key to her apartment on Sutton Place. Her
mother had railed against her, but Sheelagh didn't care. Caitlin had
her own apartment on a different floor. The old woman
disapproved of fey Carl, but she didn't eschew his booty. She was
fond of having her friends come by and being able to give them
enormously generous gifts from the seemingly inexhaustible bank
accounts Carl had set up for her.
	Sheelagh was not as happy with her money. She wanted Carl.
The first few weeks, she had made a fool of herself over him. She
had shown up at his apartment on the West Side, ostensibly to help
with spaced-out Zeke, and instead had sat in Carl's bedroom when
he was out and smelled his clothes. His odor to her was meadow-
green, hummocky, and lustful as a satyr. She was uninterested in
being around anyone else, and her friends began avoiding her. Her
old boyfriend disgusted her with his unlikeness to Carl, and she was
happy when he stopped calling and she heard he 'was with someone
else.
	Not having to .work anymore, being able to go anywhere and
do anything, meant startlingly little without the man she loved. She
didn't know that Carl's alpha androstenol, which the Ad skyle had
fitted for Evoe, approximated the sex-cueing hormonal receptors
deep in her own limbic brain. And she wouldn't have

felt otherwise if she had known. Carl's mountain-valley scent had
led her to the heart's edge, high above reason. There she lived for
him, working out daily in the building's spa to keep toned, reading
everything she could find in the libraries about black holes, and
waiting.
	She had not seen Carl in over a week the dawn he came to her
bedroom. He was relieved she was not with someone else. He had
been oblivious to her when she last came by Claremont Avenue to
see him. He hadn't known Evoe was still alive then, and he was in a
deathful mood. Afterward, he was sure he'd never see her again.
	Zeke had grunted about the idiocy of hurting someone who
knew as much as she did, but he didn't care. He had the lancer
armor and the lynk, and he'd fend off the whole planet for the next
twenty-two days if he had to. That arrogance was the numb callus
of his soul. It shielded him from the pain of a life without Evoe.
Now that he knew his mate was alive, he had become vulnerable
again. He had someone to live for-and dying became frightening
again.
	Carl did not go to Sheelagh for sex, though the anxiety in his
thews was erotic. The zotl were coming to kill him, and Evoe was
waiting for him not to fail. The tension of terror and hope trilled in
him with the same voltaic resonance as lust. The energy had floated
him down Riverside, across Seventy-second Street, through Central
Park, and east along Fifty-seventh Street to Sutton Place.
	Zeke's speech had replayed in him several times, running on
the charge from his tension, and he had decided to take what
comfort he could in Sheelagh.
	Sheelagh roused from sleep gently, cooed awake by subtle
magnetic pulses from the lance tucked up the sleeve of Carl's
sweater. The fragrance of sunridden
grass rushed her awake, and she sat up surprised to find Carl beside
her. "Carl!" Her red-blond hair was tangled in sleep curls, and when
she lifted her arm to unsnaggle it, the bedsheet dropped enough for
Carl to see the pale, ample curves of her breasts. "What are you
doing here at this hour?"
	"I've got to talk to somebody." Carl slid the lance out from his
sleeve and held it in both hands across his lap. "I'm sorry to sneak
in here like this. I should have waited in the TV room till you woke
up. But the craziness of all this is zooming in. Its all too weird. I
had to be with someone I trust. Zeke is just coming out of his
chemical mixup, and your mom thinks I'm Satan's protege. You're
the only one I can turn to."
	"Wait a minute." She hopped out of bed and capered naked
to the bathroom.
	Carl sprawled across the bed. He felt mischievous with desire-
the first conscious lust he'd felt since losing Evoe.. The Foke were
not monogamous, and he knew Evoe would encourage him to be
socially sexual while they were apart. The Werld, after all, had no
venereal disease. The thought of her warmed his desire. At least she
was alive. Only the zotl and one hundred and thirty billion light
years separated them, obstacles which seemed small beside the
infinite abyss of death.
	He moved to place the lance on the nightstand and noticed a
book on gravity waves and cosmology. Sheelagh cared enough
about him to want to learn about the universe that had changed
him, and that insight sundered the desire in him. Why had he
implicated this girl in his grotesque fate? Why had he come here this
morning except to use her to counter his anxiety? He felt ashamed
of his selfishness, and he was at the bedroom door, on the way out,
when Sheelagh stepped back in from the bathroom.

	"Please--don't go." In the chalky dawnlight, her nakedness
glowed. e
	Carl paused in the doorway, awed by her lovesick body. His
shame was slipping away like sleep. Her milkwhite breasts swayed
with her advance, and he let his eyes drop to the garnet-yellow hair
between her thighs. He closed the door, and they sat down on the
bed together. She took the lance from him and laid it on the floor.
The words he wanted to speak went breathless in him as she pulled
off his sweater and unbuckled his pants.
	He felt the hungriness of a cloud of mosquitoes in his loins,
and as the last shred of restraint frayed, the light lancer armor
inspirited a thought. Carl suppressed the chilly sensation of the
other inside him. He had gotten good at ignoring the armor since he
had found something like a no-time within himself. The Zone, as he
called it, was a recess in his psyche where all the sounds, sights,
odors, and textures of the day went within his head. With a little
concentration, he could drop the armor's psychic intrusions there,
too. All he wanted to know from the armor was when the zotl had
arrived for dinner. The white noise of the Zone smothered the
armor's inspiriting, and Carl turned away from his farflung hopes
and fears for the lubricious moment.
	Sex was a lens of exhilaration, amplifying parts, like the
shifting rococo of her hair on the pillow and her eyes like decorated
glass, chromed with tears of joy as his hand fetched the lily of her
genitals. His touch floated like a piece of light, and they twined
together like music. He timed his deft massage to the green pulse of
a vein in her throat and the rhythms of her breasts. Her song
steepened and then frenzied as an orgasm bloomed through her. She
clawed at the hand welded to her bluehot center and cried.
	A scream cracked the tempo of her pleasure, and
she was rudely shoved aside as Carl bounded to his feet: "Hee-
yipes!" he howled, clutching his hand. His face-was skullwhite
as he examined the hand and saw two thin wires of blood
glinting from his knuckles to his wrist.
	"What's the matter?" Sheelagh asked in a hurt voice. "It's
just a scratch."
	. He faced her with a stare like an ax. "Oh, cod," his huge
face whispered. His wild eyes searched the room and fixed on
the doily under the nightlamp. He ripped the doily from under
it with such force that the lamp was dashed to smithereens. He
clamped the cloth against his cut hand.
	Sheelagh curled up with fright. "Carl, what's wrong? It's
just a scratch."
	He picked up his lance and aimed it at her. "Put out your
hand. Hurry."
	She balked, cringing with fear, and he grabbed her hand
and irradiated it with UV But the lance shut down before it
would damage her.
	Carl dropped the lance, bolted to the bathroom, banged
around there, and burst into the laundry closet. When he
lurched back into the bedroom, he was uncapping a jug of
bleach. "Give me your hand," he ordered.
	Sheelagh crawled into the corner. "What are you doing?"
	"Just give me your hand, goddammit!" He was splashing
bleach all over the bed, and when she hesitated, he seized her
wrist and doused her whole arm in bleach. While she wept, he
soaked her fingernails. Sweat beaded like mercury across his
brow, and his face trembled.
	"I'm sorry-I'm sorry," he mantrumed while he finished
immersing her fingertips in palm-cupped bleach. Then he
clambered into his clothes. "Stop crying

please! It's not you. It has nothing to do with you. Do you
understand?"
"No!" she blubbered.
	"I have to get out of here." He backed toward the door.
	"Don't go."
	"I'll come back," he lied.
	"You're lying. You're leaving for good. I'll never see you
again. I know it."
	"No. Don't talk like that," he said from the doorway.
"But I've got to go now. Please-forgive me."
	Sheelagh sat hunched over her tears in fearful confusion,
and when Carl galloped out of the apartment and the door
banged behind him, she collapsed under an avalanche of sobs.

	Carl phoned Zeke from Ames, Iowa, and had him take
the next flight out. The trip was Zeke's first time out in the
world by himself in a long time. He dressed inconspicuously in
loafers, gay slacks, blue shirt, bowtie, and tweed blazer. He was
apprehensive about being recognized, and a fugitive anxiety
accompanied him even in the privacy of the cab to the airport.
His mind was clear, however, and he was pleased with how
easily he flowed back into the stream of things.
	A limo picked him up at the Des Moines airport and
drove him through the long fluent miles of resinous land to a
lonely warehouse big and empty as a ship's hull. Workers toiled
with electric saws, hammers, and welders, fitting living quarters
into a corner of the warehouse.
	Carl met him- at a scaffolded loading dock cluttered with
lumber, fixtures, and pipes. They sauntered toward the
warehouse under streamers of construction noise, and Carl
told him about the spore.
	Zeke went moth-white and fluttery. His eyes were
glazed brown fruits when they saw the bandage strapping
Carts hand. Carl explained about Sheelagh and him, and
Zeke sat down on a stack of cinderblocks.
	"You've known about this all along?" he asked in a
shadowy voice. "Why did you come back?" The answer
returned to him with the shock of a revelation: Carl had never
left. His bodymind had journeyed among universes but his
soul was everyone around him-all complicit with his betrayal
of life on earth. A-shudder twitched through him.
	All Zeke could think to say was: "I can't believe you've
had the balls to shave each morning."
	Carl's contrite face brightened. " I don't. I use this." He
lifted his left arm, and the red lens of the lance glinted from
under his cuff.
	Zeke experienced a warm flush on his cheeks and chin,
and he looked down to see a fine dust of whiskers' powdering
his shirtfront. "You're, the crazy one," he said, challenging Carl
with the boldness of his stare.
	"You're surprised at that?" Carl responded. "After all
I've lost, you expect me to be sane?"
	"Lost?" The veins in Zeke's temples drummed. He
thought of slugging Carl, but knowledge of the spore
dissuaded him. "You've got a perfect body, an armor with
godful powers, and a lance that gives a great shave. What've
you lost? Earth-one, a savage greedconfounded toxic dump?
Evoe? Does she love you with more passion and more
surrender than Sheelagh? Is she more beautiful?"
	"It's not that."
	"Damn right. What have you lost?"
"The ordinary." He dragged out a sigh. "It's strange
now. I can barely remember when life was ordinary
enough to be boring. I miss that. "
	"So you've endangered a whole world to recapture

a feeling?" Zeke thwacked- his notebook across his knee and
looked away.
	"You're the one that believes the universe is infinite. What
are you worried about? There are plenty of other earths, right?
And besides, you're the one who told me to take my pleasure
when I found it."
	"Mat was before I knew you had parasites." Zeke stood
up and looked about at the hustling workcrews. "What the
hell is all this about?"
	"It's a place for you to stay while the lynk converts you for.
the jump. We go in three weeks, but now it's too dangerous
to stay in New York. So we're going to have to stay with the
lynk."
	"But the lynk is with the pigshit in Barlow"
	"I'm moving it. Now that I've so handily charmed
Sheelagh, I've got to cover our tracks. The dung and the lynk
will arrive here tomorrow at the end of a trail of redtape that
completely buries any tie between this place and Alfred Omega.
I started the process weeks ago, after you told Dr. Blau who I
was."
	"That's the smartest thing you've done yet," Zeke
muttered as a foreman approached Carl and presented an order
sheet for his signature.
	When they were alone again, Carl confessed: "It was the
armor's idea."
	"I should have known." Zeke's heart was erupting
with feeling. The shock of what Carl had revealed
mingled hotly with the gleeful expectation of the jour-
ney ahead. He felt gargoyled. "Perhaps Sheelagh won't
go to the authorities. Maybe the spore wasn't released.
It is just a scratch, right? And the armor hasn't implod-
ed you." 	-
	"Sheelagh may be all right," Carl agreed. "But if I were her-
"
	"You mean, if, the armor were her-"
	"Yeah, it's the armor's belief that Sheelagh is going to
turn us in. It's her only way of keeping me here."
	"The armor's right. I asked Sheelagh once if she'd come
with us. Her look would have poached an egg. She wants you,
and she wants you here."
	"But we're so close to getting away, Zeebo. I'm going to
see if I can talk her out of interfering."
	Zeke's face bobbed forward. "You're what?"
	"I'm going to talk with her."
	"You're not going back?"
	"I want to see for myself if the authorities are on to us."
	Zeke slapped his forehead as if suddenly comprehending.
"Of coursel And if they are?"
	"Confront them." Carl pointed his left arm at a
screwdriver on a workbench and it propellered into the air and
stabbed ,a wind-gusting paper scrap to the plank wall of the
storage shed. "I'll make a deal. We still have the trump cards."
	"Yeah,' Zeke concurred in a breath of awe that went flat.
"For now"
	Carl glanced up at the blue silence of the sky. "For now"

	That night while Zeke slept in one of the mobile homes
parked at the site, Carl stood outside and used his lance to
magnetically stroke the sleep channels in his friend's brain.
When he was sure that Zeke was slumbering deeply, he entered
the trailer and went directly to Zeke's notebook. He opened it
to the latest entry and by the scalloped light from his lance, he
read:
	"Carl called today, from central Iowa. I've flown out of my
past and am interfacing the future here in Ames. The old
horror is over: My mind is clear again. But a new horror-
threatens. Carl carries the urg's spore. The whole planet is
endangered by his presence. He is a

living nightmare and also the gateway to forever. I feel as if I
were in a B-movie: Should I kill or worship him? If he bleeds
on me, I'd be adamized. Do I want. that? In an infinite
cosmos all directions are strange."
	Carl returned the notebook to where he'd found it and left
quietly. The next day Zeke did not wake up. Nor- the day after
that. The armor, through the magnetic caress of the lance, had
stroked him into a psychic trance. Zeke floated in a region
fringing four-space. Carl called this egoless, dimensionful area
the Zone. It was the emptiness where he dumped all
undesirable thoughts. For Zeke, this new, dreamwide state was
the pivot of the Moment, the needle's eye through which he
could thread his attention into any space at all.
	Zeke found himself circling like smoke through a room of
bronzed light. Sheelagh sat in a reclining chair, her scalp and
fingers wired to a console where three technicians sat. The
elderly, snake-eyed woman interrogating her wore an officer's
lapel pin identifying her as Commander Leonard. She was
obviously having a hard time believing Sheelagh's story, even
though the technicians were confirming her testimony.
	That scene unwalled to a vista of stars. The blue cloud-
gained sphere of the earth lifted into view, and Zeke realized he
was flying with Carl. He could feel Carl's thoughts, slow-
bursting like flowers, as he pondered his life. He had just come
from Sheelagh's apartment, but she was not there. The moon
stared from the dark side of the earth. '
	A sudden lassitude pollarded Zeke's sensations, and
when he came to he was in his bed in the mobile home. He felt
gigantic with understanding. Everything in the last two years
finally made sense. The inspelling he had used to write Shards
of Time and the telepathic surges that had followed in the
asylum were the result of Carl's armor. Zeke had been in union
with it long
before Carl even arrived on earth. Rimstalkers were four-space
beings. To them, Carl and Zeke, as lifelong companions, were
one worldline. The armor's inspiriting was Zeke's inspelling.
The Rimstalkers had been in four-space communion with
Zeke all his life--and at last he recognized the phantasmal
daydreams of those dreary afternoons at St. Tim's as the
armor's tesseratic presence. And the intuition that had rolled
him to his feet that night in Nam on earth-one when the
enemy were swarming toward him-the sixth sense that had
gums him through the bamboo to the riverbank rathive where
he had holed up till an ARVN patrol found him the next
morning-that luck was his lifelong bond to the armor. He and
the armor had been interfused all along; at a level deeper than
time. The contact was purposeless, merely the overspill of
knowing Carl, who was the true contact with the Rimstalkers.
If Zeke hadn't felt sorry for that spindly, doe-eyed twerp the
other kids liked to head-dunk in the toilet bowls and forcefeed
cockroaches, he would never have found the vantage from
where the world is transparent.

	The strong sunlight diffusing through the glass roof of
the warehouse reminded Carl of the blue brightness of the
Welkyn. He sat in a hammock-chair and surveyed the expansive
interior. The living area had a waxed wooden floor, round,
cushiony chairs, tapestries and bookshelves to hide the support
ribbing, and a wallsized TV screen with an imaging, computer
hookup and an enormous video library. When he lay back in
the hammock and rocked among the hanging plants under the
liana arbor, a peaceful ambience saturated him.
	The butcherblock kitchen had a seawater aquarium -built
inta the counters. Zeke was sitting on a barstool with a frosty
bottle of Lone Star in his hand, watching the. fish. Since Carl
had told him about the spore and

Zeke had informed Carl of his bond with the light lancer
armor, they had become closer. Their secrets had bonded them.
And their time together once more had the relaxed spontaneity
of their early friendship.
	Zeke looked through the aquarium and. with a water-
bent smile said: "A toast to the Continuum."
	Carl picked up his lukewarm bottle from the soil bed of
the hydrangea beside him. "if there is a Continuum." He
swigged the flat beer. "And if there's not." He drank again.
	"You still think the universe is finite? After all your
misadventures?" Zeke looked disappointed. "What's the
objection this time?"
	Over the last few days as they put the finishing touches on
the warehouse, Zeke had explained the cosmology he intuited
from their bond with the armor. The expansion of the universe
was the result of the repellent force of radiation inertia, the
pressure of light pushing the galaxies apart. The weakness of
radiation thrust required enormities of time to cause a
response, and so the Continuum never reached static
equilibrium. The -slow-motion see-thing activity of the galaxies
pendulumed eternally with internal expansions and
contractions in a dynamic balance.
	"What about Olber's Paradox?" Carl asked. "I read once
that-"
	"That if the universe were- infinite and crowded uniformly
with stars, how come the night sky isn't blazing with their
light?" Zeke finished for him. `"That should be obvious-
unless you're predisposed to think and perceive finitely. The
more we amplify the weak optical resolution of the human eyes
through lenses and photon receptors, the more crowded with
stars the black spaces between the visible stars get. All
photonsensitive plates react with a limit, and so we can't see
everything that is there. It's the biological fallibility of
the human mind that keeps us from accepting the infinity of
the Continuum."
	Carl was only half listening. He had grown accustomed to
Zeke's prattle, and his inner attention went through the
kitchen to the back of the converted warehouse. There, under
slick black tarpaulins, were three point five tonnes of pig
manure. Nothing but the tarps covered the stuff, yet not a
whisper of manure tainted the air. And when Carl had
examined the mound, he had found that the-dung looked as
fresh as the day it was dropped. The lynk field had permeated
it. Soon, the lynk would be strong enough to carry them and
the whole mound of feces across the universe.
	"Another beer?" Zeke asked.
	Carl shook his head. "With the wild ideas you-have for
company," he said, rising to his feet, "you shouldn't be
drinking." He walked to the kitchen and put his empty beer
bottle in the trash. "This is a comfortable waiting room for the
next world."
	"I still wish you'd rethink going back to New York."
	"I've got to face them. You know that. If what the armor
showed you about Sheelagh is true, I'd better show myself
soon or they may decide to visit us in a less friendly fashion."
	"They don't know we're-here."
	"For all the precautions I've taken, I'still have this anxiety
that they'll find us, Zeebo. "
	"Let them. Let the future come to you. You're too
dangerous for the world." They had had this conversation
before, and when Zeke recognized the unlistening patience in
his friend's stare, he stopped and took another slug of beer.
"Just remember," he added. "You're the master of the
precipitate. You're not thoughts or bones. You're freedom
itself. You're light."
	"Sure." Carl avoided his buddy's gaze and watched the
flakes of life skittering through the kelp shadows.

For all Zeke's mumbo jumbo about .light and infinity he was
as intensely in this world as a mineral shard, and Carl felt unreal
as a ghost. Nothing, seemed as real as his memories of his lost
life. The armor had him wholly in its grip.
"Look, I'm going to be on my way," Carl said.
	"Okay, then." Zeke led him to the sliding door. They
stood together for a while in the chilled and loamy air. of the
churned earth. The dark land furrowed away on all sides.
	"Be easy with Sheelagh," Zeke advised. "And be ready for
the unexpected. Okay?"
	"You have any prescient dreams you've been holding
out?"
	"No, but I can feel the uneasiness of the armor. Four-
space is murky up ahead. Keep alert."
	Carl nodded, slapped Zeke on the shoulder. "If there's any
trouble, stay close to the lynk. The lance has cued your
molecules to pass through the field membrane. No one can
reach you there."
	Carl walked out into the field. His armor lightningflashed,
and he was gone.
t
	That evening, after eating microwaved lasagna and
watching a Lakers game on the giant TV, Zeke lay down on the
waterbed under a skylight meshed with stars. In moments, he
was asleep, flying across the dizzy space of a dream.
	He saw the silverblue scimitar of the earth cutting the
night, and the beryl sparks of Steel Wheel I and II, the cislunar
factories, glinting in the span of emptiness between the earth
and the lopsided moon.
	The dreamflight pitched steeply, and all at once Zeke's
awareness was mizzling in a sparse, modern apartment.
Sheelagh and Carl were there before a window glittering with
the constellations of the Man
hattan skyline. He Couldn't hear what they were saying at first, but
he didn't need to. Sheelagh was undressing, her valentine-face
mirthful as a mask. Her hair looked teased and her lispy mouth
nervous. If she was hiding something, Carl didn't seem to notice. He
was asking his armor if there were any threatening psyches nearby.
The armor detected none.
Then sound swarmed over Zeke's ghost presence:
	"You loved me once," Sheelagh was saying in a voice like an
empty seashell. She opened her wrinkled blouse and slinked off a
sleeve.
	"That was before Evoe," Carl answered, dryly. Sheelagh was
fragrant as warm rain, but he was not going to be tempted. "Come
off it, Sheelagh. I'm here because I know you blabbed on me."
	Her features went slick with surprise. "I didn't."
	"It's all right. I'm not angry."
	"You're not?" Her lipsticked mouth looked petulant again.
	"Why should I be?" Carl smacked the lance against his palm
like a nightstick. "I'm leaving this rock as soon as the lynk can carry
me, and nobody can stop me. I want you to tell them that. Make
them understand=-so no one tries to stop me."
	"There's still time." Her face was moony with love in a halo of
static-frizzed hair. "Stay with me. And talk with them. yourself. Let
them hear what they can before you go." ,
	"No, Sheelagh. I came back to see you, not them. I have to
explain why I behaved so wildly with you the other night."
	"Sit down and tell me." She put her hands on him to guide
him toward a Morris chair, and two blue sparks snapped from her
fingertips.
	Carl's eyes went fish-round. He looked again at her hair and
the wrinkled blouse clinging to her pale flesh.

"I wasn't thinking clearly," he said in a voice crispy with
apprehension. "The zotl had me freaked. And I just felt I had to
be with you. I needed sympathy"
	"Tell me about it." She steered him to the upholstered chair,
and the smell of her was fresh as the browse of a summer shower.
"Here, sit down."
"I got selfish," he continued through the static of
his nervousness. "And, well, to get to the point -I think
I exposed you to the same spore that first turned me
into light. The spore's in my blood, and-"
	"You what?" Her romantic mask curdled to a scowl.
	""The euphoria you're feeling-the sparks..." His hands opened
futilely before him. "They're all symptoms, Sheelagh! But you don't
have to be afraid-"
	"You infected me?" Anger and fear pulsed in her eyes. "I'm
going to be taken to that other world?" Her breath spit with her
shock. In a gesture made strong with her sudden loathing, she
shoved Carl, and he dropped backward into the plump chair.
	The springloaded hypodermic hidden in the cushion punched
him squarely in the upper right quadrant of his buttocks, and his
face buckled with shock. Zeke felt Carl's outrage as he realized he
had been duped. He raised the lance at Sheelagh, and she gasped,
the angry flush of her face draining to the color of metal. But the
drug was a nervelock, and one second later, Carl was paralyzed.
Another second, and he was unconscious.
	Time collaged, and Zeke witnessed the arrival of the police
and the siren-whirling transport of Carl's body to a surgery room in
Sloan Kettering. The images shrank and went colorless, wrinkling
up like a mushroom, collapsing into the dark duff of sleep.

	Carl woke to a searing headache. His brain felt sunburned.
When he opened his eyes, the blisters
inside his skull winced with the weight of the light. He tried to sit
up, but his muscles were so much cooked squid. The brash light sat
on his- chest, and his eyes adjusted enough for him to see that he
was in a white-tiled observation chamber. An overhead camera
silently watched him. His hands fluttered over his body, and he felt
wires taped to his nakedness.
	"Carl Schirmer," a woman's voice spoke. "I am Commander
Leonard. You are in my charge now, and I've placed you under
maximum security watch-for obvious reasons. Are you willing to
cooperate with me?"
	Carl squinted up at a whitehaired old lady with cheeks brown
and wrinkled as walnuts. Her iguana eyes regarded him
dispassionately.
	"What've you done to me?" Carl groaned. He was hollowed
out, and the gonging emptiness terrified him.
	- "Your weapons have been removed, Carl." The clack of a lock
resounded in the chamber, and a hatch opened at the far end. A
muscular fellow in a scarlet jumpsuit waited there.
"Can you sit up?" Commander Leonard asked.
"I don't think so."
	"Let's try". She lifted his head and put an arm under his
shoulders. With an unexpected strength, she sat him up, and his
head pounded like a diesel. His within life was vaporous. The hymn-
presence of the armor was gone. Only the sinuosities of his body,
shivering with alarm, were real.
	"Now I want you to stand up," she informed him.
	He looked at her as though she had asked him to kill himself.
	She pulled off the wires taped to his body, and he leaned his
face into the shoulder of her white jacket. The purple odor there
reminded him of the kindly

matrons that came to St. Tim's on holidays to play with the
children.
	"We've taken the armoring chip out of your skull," she said,
helping him to stand. "We couldn't take the chance of leaving it in.
And even with it out, we've kept you unconscious just to be sure.
You've been out for three days now, and in that time we've
examined you and your artifacts thoroughly."
	Carl wobbled, and the scarlet-suited bouncer who had stepped
into the chamber steadied him. Commander Leonard unfolded a
green hospital gown. While she dressed him, she spoke: "You have
the chromosomes of a newborn--no chipping on any of the alleles,
and the supercoiling of your genomes is tight as it gets. You're
genetically perfect. And that means you're somehow artificial.
You're not really human."
	The pain in his head was dimming, and psychic space rippled
like wind-bright curtains.
	"The painkiller should be coming on about now," Commander
Leonard said, fastening the gown's ties behind his back. "I think
you can walk. Please, try."
	He swayed forward, and the guard guided him. At the hatch,
his escort put a hand on his head to keep him from braining himself
as he went through. The outside of the chamber was darker and
cooler. The guard led him down a melon-pale corridor past doorless
ofce stalls. To one side was a burned-out cavity that had once been
an office. The black, tar-droopy shapes of a desk and chairs were
discernible in the ash-slush.
	"That's where Sheelagh caught light," Commander Leonard's
grandmotherly voice said. "No one really believed her story until
that happened. Fortunately, the agent interviewing her fled when
he saw green fire crawling over her."
	"Sheelagh-" Carl's voice cracked. "I infected her."
	"Yes, and two others in the apartment building you bought
her have also caught light in the last two days."
	Carl wanted to speak, to explain himself, but his mind was
tenanted with grief. "I didn't want this to happen-" he managed
lamely. The guard nudged him beyond the cindered room, and
anguish turned in Carl like a sense. "I'm sorry-believe me."
	"We believe everything now," the commander said. "'Mat's
why we've gotten you up."
	They came to an open elevator. It closed behind them and
with a barely perceptible hug silently carried them up. "Your
actions have threatened all life on earth," Leonard spoke. "You're a
selfish, thoughtless man, Carl, and you should be punished for what
you've done. But for now, we need you. And maybe bur need is
punishment enough."
	Terror bristled in him. "The zotl."
	The commander's lizard eyes nodded. "The lance has been
calling for you. It started at midnight. Listen."
	Carl heard it: a rumbling, inchoate as thunder.
	The elevator stopped, the doors parted, and the thunder
became a bellowing that forced hands over ears. The guard pushed
Carl into the withering roar. The cacophony stopped instantly.
	Carl looked around. He was in an amphitheater ringed with
computer panels and viewscreens. The floor of the chamber was a
maze of consoles. People in uniforms and lab suits were coming out
of the soundproofed siderooms where they had been waiting. At
the center of the electronic labyrinth was a gray velvet pedestal on
which lay the gold lance and the electricitycolored armoring chip. A
technician .in a green smock picked them up in surgery-gloved
hands and began working his way through the maze to them.
	The viewscreens came on, revealing a milky dawn

sky. Pins of cold light flashed on the monitor screen with the
glinting swiftness of rapiers.
"Needlecraft," Carl clattered more than said.
	"If you can't stop them," Commander Leonard said stiffly,
"the spore you infected us with won't have its chance to kidnap
us."
	One of the screens displayed an array of missiles with
makeshift warheads. Their exhaust fires redshadowed the sky as
they crossed the space where the needlecraft had been moments
before. "Radar-where are they?"the commander queried.
	"They're not showing up on radar," the reply came.
	The technician with the lance and the chip stood before them.
	Commander Leonard looked into Carl sternly. "You're the
criminal who caused all this evil. None of us wants you to have
your power back. But you're the only hope of stopping this
invasion. Do you want to help us?"
	"Yes-I'll do anything to make up for what's happened." He
bustled with sincerity.
	"Turn around, Carl," the commander ordered. "Let's hope this
works."
	Carl' couldn't believe it. They were giving his armor back to
him. But could they? They, weren't Rimstalkers. They were just
desperate. Carl prayed with all his vital fibers and the hollowness
they held, praying for connection. Please, God-give it back to me.
1 won't trip up this time. Please!
	The gloved technician peeled off the thick bandage at the
back of Carl's head and inserted the chip in the plastic-prised
incision there.
	Dazzling pain kicked Carl forward, and the guard holding him
staggered. A red-blue spark jumped from the incision like a viper,
and everyone stepped back.
	Carl's headache wisped away. Colors seemed to go brighter.
Space became translucent with energy. Some
thing like a steel, spring coiled tightly inside him, and the inspiriting
began. The fires of his body gusted with the internal force of the
armor, and when he turned about and faced the commander, he
had the visage of a chieftain.
"Where are we?" the armor asked through him.
	"At a missile-firing range on the tip of Long Island,"
Commander Leonard responded. She took the lance from the
technicians and handed it to him. "We're a thousand feet
underground. The elevator will take you out."
	The touch of the lance quickened him with bright force,
intoning the urgency of his mission with the drive to move. He
strode into the elevator and jabbed the top button.
	On the ride up, he caught himself in the gap between his
feeble humanity and the armor's power. He felt like the muddy
center of the universe. How had he come to this? He was Carl
Schirmer, the avatar of ennui, the eternal ephebe, always more eager
for ambience than destiny. He had never expected, much less asked,
for his fate, least of all the ravishments of Evoe. It was losing her
that had driven him mad. He was a false hero, a fool at the limits of
reality. But his love for her was real. And he was thinking of her
when the elevator stopped and the door opened.
	Dawn gashed the sky. Carl settled into the embrace of his ribs,
leaned back against his spine, and stepped out of the bunker onto
the wide, saltgrass-tufted field. His armor came on, and like a piece
of the sun, he lifted into the blue sky.
	Needlecraft flitted in every direction, and the armor spun him,
punching out with laserlight. The sky erupted with blue and green
roses as each of the zotl craft was hit. The rumble of their
destruction zeroed in

all directions. Carl circled about, waiting for more craft to come
through the lynk.
	The atmosphere above him limbed with a startling luminance,-
and a bulbous, spidery shape of gluey blue fire appeared overhead.
	Carl wanted to fly off, but instead the armor lowered him to
the rock-strewn range. The sandy ground was flat to a horizon
rimmed with sand bluffs. The silverblue spider landed in a torrent
of dusty light. And just looking at it, Carl knew. the lance would be
useless. This was Rimstalker armor fitted to a zotl.
	With grim resoluteness, Carl's armor stalked toward the fang-
grinning abstraction, and Carl went brainless with fear.
	The zotl snapped forward. At the instant of contact, the two
light lancer armors flashed with molten sparks. The armors grappled,
and their tormented shapes . flexed larger than life, quaked brightly,
and disappeared.
	Carl's bare feet stunned onto the rocky terrain, and the salt air
gripped him. His rusty hair and the loose material of his hospital
gown jumped with the clap of wind that followed the armor's
shutdown. A stink of soured flesh slicked by, and he reeled
backward at the sight of the unarmored zotl that appeared before
him. The male and female zotl were not together. The bulging sac of
the female was an arm's length away, the orange slug-mawed crown
drooling its vomit stench as it gilled the planet's thin air.
	Carl looked swiftly about for the male. It was hovering just
behind him, and as he turned, it slashed forward. Its blade-curved
beak gouged his scalp, and the hook-spurred legs dug into his face
and neck. Carl beat the spidershape with his lance, and it sprang
loose and jumped over him. He dodged instinctively, and the.
creature's sharp beak hacked the air just above his ear, its jabbering
mouthparts flaying his scalp and chewing
mad sounds in his ear. He batted it away and swung
toward the barrelshaped female.
	The male dove at Carl in a frenzied attack, cutting the
flesh on his right hand and making him drop the lance. The
jointed legs dexterously retrieved the .lance and flung it away.
	Carl-tackled the female, pulling the thing over by the
shocks of its ape-thick hide. It took him down with it, and the
male's legs ripped into his, shoulder while its feedtube
desperately lanced at his throat, seeking the carotid. His right
arm was pinned under the female's bulk and his left hand
cramped with pain as it reached up and lay hold of the frantic
sticklybacked thing.
	The hot blood spilling over his face blinded him, and he
squeezed shut his eyes and contorted the length of his body to
avoid the spider's scissoring jaws and razored feedtube. With
terror's adamant strength, he tore the zotl from his flesh. He
held the mad, writhing shape in his gory grip, away from his
face, as he heaved the female over and freed his right arm. Its
cries throbbed in the air.
	Carl clenched a handy rock, the earth's first weapon, and
pounded it into the spiderbeing. Spurts of black blood slapped
him, and a haggard wail bawled from the female. It was rolling
and twisting, spewing putrid ichor in long convulsive arcs. Carl
picked up a flat, two-handed rock and used it to crush the zotl.
The work was ugly. The inside of his face was scalded with the
sick smell, and the gash wounds on his body screamed with
pain. The  rock slab beat down hard on the. split chiton and
jumping viscera of the monster until his armor snapped on
with a crack of lightning.
	He recovered the lance and bathed himself with
anesthetizing pulses. The armor directed the lance, and the
wounds were sonically cleansed and cauterized. Miraculously,
no tendons or major bloodways had been

cut. Then with the sun spread out on the horizon like a red
river, the armor lifted him and ricocheted him off the sky.
	Ames, Iowa, was untouched. A few of the townspeople
had seen needlecraft arrowing through the sky that night, but
none had landed and none had been seen since. Carl's armor
detected no zotl activity any-, where. He was glad for the miles
of unsullied land that surrounded Ames. He was sick from the
zotl killing and was grateful that no humans had been killed,
including himself.
	The sight of the lynk warehouse was a relief. Carl was sure
it would have been a target, but the zotl in the short time
before his armor was returned had obviously never found it.
He touched down before the partly open sliding door. His
wounds were glossy, lacquered with the first sheen of scabs.
	"Zeebo!" he called out as he entered. Beer-colored klieg
lights gushed from the arched ceiling over the expansive
interior. The living quarters looked lived-in: The giant TV was
on, glowing with coverage of the worldwide UFO sightings.
He turned the screen off. "Zee-where are you?"
	Carl roamed through the kitchen and sleeping quarters to
the back of the warehouse. The lynk field tingled over him as
he approached the hill of tarpcovered pig dung. He rounded
the far end of the mound and was frozen by what he saw.
	A bloated human figure was bent over a zotl female, face
forward in its ooze-bubbling mouth. The male was clasping
the back of the bruise-stained head. The body jerked upward
and pivoted about. Through the blue-puffed features and the
gangrenously swollen body, Carl recognized his friend. It was
Zeke. The
agonized eyes nailed him, and the- turgid body careened
forward.
	Carl glimpsed a hip-high parabola of glassy metal--a
lynkre he dodged Zeke. A silvergreen light streamed through
the parabola; which he could just see beyond the stout shape
of the zotl female. He fired an inertial pulse at it, and the barrel
shape burst apart.
	Before he could fire again, Zeke grabbed him. They
struggled across the floor of the warehouse to the back wall.
Zeke had Carl in a headlock, and Carl was hooking back with
his legs, trying to trip him. He beat the lance against Zeke's
sides, not wanting to fire on him. Their locked forms smashed
against the back door of the building, and it burst open under
the impact. They fell through, and Carl twisted out of the
powerful grip and rolled to his feet.
	Zeke was on his hands and knees, cumbersomely rising.
Carl fired a carefully aimed pulse to the back of Zeke's head, and
the zotl spider fell away, its feedtube sliding out of the skull
slick with blood chime.
	Carl rolled Zeke over. The blue thick face was crazed, the
eyes yellowed, unfocused. The lance magnetically soothed the
brain and sheathed the body in a flux of vitalizing energy.
Soon Zeke's gaze was focusing and his voice mouthing toward
sound.
	'16d--lynk," Zeke rasped.
	"I know," Carl reassured him. "I saw it. I'll go back in
and destroy it."
	Zeke clasped a black-fingernaded hand on his arm, .his
bruise-quilted face gasping to speak. Before be could, the air
shocked to an icy brilliance. The warehouse was filled with an
enormous light. The radiance seeped through the cracks of the
walls and streamed in great beams out of the windows and the
back door. Then darkness.
The armor filled Carl with understanding: The

zotl lynk had inadvertently provided the necessary inertia to
lynk the pig manure with the Werld-two weeks early. The
armor also inspirited the news that unless he got himself into
the warehouse within the next few minutes, while the lynk
echoes were still strong, he would be unable to lynk at all. He
would be permanently stranded on earth-two.
	He peered down at Zeke, whose tormented face was
relaxing toward the semblance of a smile. "Go-" he husked. -He
wanted to tell Carl so much-about the. marvels of pain the zotl
had revealed-about the supernatural calm inside the emptiness
of the spirit where only pain can go-but his mouth barely
worked. "Youcan't do-anything for me." His lips hooked
toward a smile. "Go-"
	Carl used the lance to radio for help. He made Zeke as
comfortable as he could, laying him in paineasing currents
from. the lance. If only he could take Zeke with him-but his
friend's inertia belonged to earth-two, not the Werld. Carl's
insides were jumping with the eagerness to go, but he still had
to force himself to turn away from his friend. At the back door,
he looked around and waved. Zeke's finger twitched. Carl
walked into the warehouse.
	A moment later, the door and windows flashed with a
majestic fulgor. The darkness that settled back was salty with
tiny lights for a long time afterward.

	Carl appeared for a few seconds in Rataros. The black
flames were frozen, still as megaliths, and in this pitch dark, the
animal in him was close. He felt fear like a wetness inside him,
cold and electrical. He was alone with that fear within the
vacuum of himself. The armor had been taken away again.
	Suddenly, horizons of red clouds appeared. Great strides
of clouds! He tumbled into a gulf of skyles and
cloudlanes, falling from lynk to lynk on his light-second-long
journey to the eld skyle. The lance was still in his hand, and he
clutched the weapon close to his body. He noticed then that he
was garbed in a leather finsuit and strider sandals.
	He was numb with the horror of losing Zeke, yet
by the time the sky had brightened to the beaten
bluegold luster of the Welkyn and the eld skyle's giant
moss-veined walls were turning below him, awe had
softened his feelings. The black waters of the eld skyle's
lake gleamed deeply as opal. 	-
	He slid over a fallpath to the wall of the lake. Thornwings
were everywhere, cruising low over the water and dropping in
dark bales. As he climbed down the wall, he saw the mound of
pig manure on the'beach below him. Thornwings were
gathering the dung and dispersing it on the waters.- Among
the slopes of dung were scattered articles from the .warehouse:
a chair, a houseplant, pots and pans, and Zeke's black-and-
white-speckled notebook. He picked up the notebook and
looked out over the lake, waiting for the eld skyle to speak.
	Nothing happened. He waded into the lake and even
immersed himself in the thick water. Still nothing. On shore,
while he waited, he flipped through Zeke's journal. He read:
	"Emptiness. Carl is gone. I'm alone. Really. alone. The
connection with the armor has vanished. For the first time in
over two years, I am just myself again. No inspelling. No
surges. Strangely enough, that doesn't bother me at all. In fact,
I'm glad. I guess I've finally learned: A man must love his own
to stay a man."
	The gravel clacked behind Carl, and he jumped about
with a shout. He saw a brown tangle of vines and vetch with a
green scar glowing behind a fist-sized

birdhead. The thornwing's stately walk stopped a pace away;,
and its tendriled arms lifted and opened.
	""You've come for me, my old friend," Carl acknowledged.
"Okay-we'll go." He looked out over the eld skyle's lake one
more time. The other thornwings were still splashing bales of
manure into the lake. Somewhere in its depths Sheelagh's
strangeness was being digested. And others, too. Someday he
might meet them. If he hadn't killed the eld skyle by
overloading. it. A pang of guilt cramped through him.
	"Don't worry about me," he heard the eld skyle's voice, far,
far within himself. He startled. When he strained to hear, it was
gone. Then: "The spores you released were limited. Only eighty
thousand or so people will catch light before the number of
spores is exhausted. Their strangeness feeds me well. It pulls
me away from you."
	The eld skyle thinned o$: Feebly, the voice returned, inside
the ringing of his earbones: "But listen. Though the
Rimstalkers have taken back their armor, they've left you the
lance."
	"Great," Carl grumped. "A sword and no shield."
	"More than a sword," the shadow-thin voice said. "It is a
bomb. When you pull o$' the hilt, it will trigger a starfire geyser
that will cut off any approach--a wall of impenetrable energy.
Use it to save your Evoe. The thornwing knows where to take
you. That is all I can do for you-all that is left in me of you.
Goodbye, Carl Schirmer. And glad fortune to you."
	Silence hissed.
	Carl smiled sadly and proudly. He saluted the eld skyle
with his lance and stepped backward into the bristly embrace of
the thornwing.

	The thornwing carried him through several natural lynks,
rolling down a fallpath in the intense, bluegold
light of the Welkyn. The pure white and languorous clouds
poured through the skyles on their endless spiral climb toward
the shear winds of the Eld. Their gray velvet interiors blanked
his thoughts, and he burned in the sliding silence with the
power of his return. Zeke's notebook tucked into the back of
his finsuit and the wounds from his zotl fight were the
emblems of his striving. And Evoe was at the end of this
journey. The lance in his firm grip was cold. Its alien works
clicked and purred. In the open spaces, Carl took shots at rock
spires and treetips, remembering the use of the lance. It was
difficult without the armor to help him select the lance
function and to aim. Then they dove through the Cloudriver
for a long time, and there was nothing to see. The emptiness
jammed him toward sleep.
	When the clouds burst apart, they were within sight of
Galgul. The roots of Carl's blood flinched at the dark sight of
the City of Pain. Cindered debris plumed the sky casting a
gravelly black pall over the remaining zotl spheres. And though
this was the Welkyn, the light was dim and redlong.
	The thornwing hauled Carl through one of the dusty
flightlanes that unfurled in carbon-black arcs about the broken
city. Galgul was bound in a knot of clogged sky cut by
fallpaths. But in the interim since the gravity wave had
ruptured these spheres, the fine dust had settled with the
heavier mangled shards into. ribboning bands outside the free
lanes of the moving fallpaths, and the thornwing could skim
over the charred litter toward the core of Galgul.
	Needlecraft cruised among the plasteel debris, but they
were no threat. The lance alerted `him with tones to the
approach of the zotl, and the thornwing was able to move
with the streams of detritus closer to the cracked-open sphere.
	As the shattered spheres neared, Carl glimpsed

through the cumbering fields of shrapnel one sphere that
gleamed. His eyes strained, and his heart pounded with the
effort to discern what was ahead, but the rubble had become
too dense. The fallpath ahead grinded with orbiting gravel. The
thornwing's flight faltered and stopped. It could carry Carl no
farther.
	Carl thought of clearing a path with the lance, but nixed
the idea when he realized the next moment that it would draw
the zotl to him. He would have to go on alone.
	He reached out and took hold of a scorched boulder. The
thornwing let him go, and he was left hanging on the edge of
the fallpath with the other debris. His weight nudged the
housesized boulder, and in the diminished gravity they began a
slow rotation. The tumbleweed that was the thornwing rolled
toward the clear flightlanes with a farewell squawk and banked
out of sight.
	Movement in the distant direction it flew caught Carl's eye.
He scrambled against the spin of the big rock and climbed to
the turning edge where he could see human figures
galumphing over the choked edge of the fallpath. Black dust
swarmed about them like a haze of flies. By their silhouettes
against the ,luminous blue shadow of the Welkyn, he saw that
they were Foke and that they wore the black strider tunics of a
suicide squad.
	They were approaching, and Carl bent down and walked
in synchrony with the rock's movement, staying in one place, .
ready to drop out of sight. The group bounded through the
smoky air close enough for him to see their faces. They were
strained with flight, eager to cover distance.
	Carl's focus locked on the blackbearded, gangstergrim face
of the chief: It was Allinl The thornwing had .carried Carl to
Allin--by its own design or the eld
skyle's, Carl had no time to guess. Allin rushed by meters away.
	Carl moved to join them, and that instant the sky convulsed
with the compression of a big explosion. A trollish cry gulfed
hearing, and Carl threw himself flat. A tiny sun ignited from where
the Poke had come, lashing the space around it with hot flechettes
of slag. A needlecraft had tripped the Foke's plastique bomb. The
jumpship it had been escorting veered sharply to avoid colliding
with the fireball. The needlecraft trailing the jumpship spotted the
fleeing Foke and broke off to run them down. Laserfire twinkled
from the attack ships and thumped the rocks around the Foke to
fiery bullets
	Carl took aim with his lance and fired. A beam of soothing
infrared streamed from the muzzle. He cursed and twisted the
calibrated hilt until it clicked to -the setting that he had learned was
gravity-sheathed laser bursts. He aimed again, and the first two
bursts caromed off floating debris. The third hit the lead needlecraft
by accident when it rolled into an evasive run, and it billowed into
green fire and black smoke. The other needlecraft pulled away.
	Carl turned the lance's wavelength cylinder to its longest
extreme--gravity waves--and set the lance to fire a tightly
compacted charge. He aimed at the black shining nacelle of the
jumpship in the pinpointed distance and fired. He missed by a
thousand meters, but it didn't matter. The immense shockwave of
the blast flipped the jumpship out of the clearing and into a steel-
strewn fallpath. The shock of its eruption ignited the needlecraft
that had swung back to protect the ship, and the gray sky flared.
	Recoil from the shot pushed Carl backward off the boulder,
and he sailed into sight of the Foke. They were cowering behind
whatever protection they could find, expecting the bowshock of
such a strong blast to sweep

over them. Carl knew from experience that the lance's gravity
bursts were shaped to scatter perpendicular to the line of fire. He
curled to slow his recoil and used his fins to set him down on a
chunk of blistered plasteel overlooking the Foke.
	"Why are you wearing- a black tunic, Allin, if you're going to
hide?" he called down to them.
	"It's the dropping!" one of the band identified him.
	Allin was too astonished to speak. He looked for the
shockfront and saw far off the fire lickings where the jumpship and
the needlecraft had been. He looked back at Carl agog.
	"You came here to die," Carl spoke to the band. 'And you'd be
little more than seared meatballs now if I hadn't come along." He
held up the lance and manipulated the hilt so that the muzzle
flashed once with starpointed radiance. "The eld skyle and the
Rimstalkers have given me this-a light lance. I want to use it to free
the imprisoned Foke." He pointed the whitesmoldering lance at the
distant zotl sphere. "Will you give me your lives?"
	The Foke had floated out from their coveys, and they stared
at Carl in his leather finsuit and scarred face with wonder-loud eyes.
Allin pulled himself up beside Carl. The Foke's dark-coiled bangles
were pulled back from a face fierce as a Comanche's. He looked at
the lance and into Carl's broad stare.
	"You've just paid me for the lives you lost," he said in his
gritful voice. "I will attack Galgul with you. But not for you. I go
to this death for our Foke."
	He started to take off his holster, symbol of the band's
leadership, and Carl stopped him. "You'll lead the squad," he told
the Foke chief. "I'll keep the zotl off us."
	Allin agreed, and he put a hand on Carl's shoulder. "We'll die
together."
	"Who said anything about dying? I just want a hit-and-
run rescue." Carl looked down into the squad's ferine faces.
"Nobody is going to get killed. Right?" They stared back with
the clarified power of animals. He looked back to Allin: "You
sure know how to pick them."
	They flew a fallpath close to the floating heaps of cinders
and jumped a ride on boulders big as streetcars to keep- out of
sight. When the boulders' gliding orbit about Galgul came
within sight of the ruptured sphere, they slipped of and tacked
across the fallpath.
	The city-sphere filled space like a murky grotto. Diamond
grains sparkled in its depths. Allin's spyglass revealed them to
be tiers of glastic-encapsuled Foke. Somewhere in there was
Evoe. The lance was already buzzing Carl's fingertips with her
proximity; and by aiming it at the cavernous sphere, he could
tactilely feel the level where she was located.
	Allin pointed to a scattered flock of jumpships in the
umber aura of the sphere. Their range of fire swept every
approach to the structure. And inside the cordon, the
flightlanes twitched with needlecraft.
	Carl nodded, visualizing his attack. He signed the Foke to
lie low and adjusted the lance for rapid-fire gravity bursts. But
the setting wouldn't hold. The lance didn't have that capacity.
He would have to single-five the bursts, which meant that if he
rhythmed the attack wrong, if even one jumpship escaped his
barrage, they'd be frittered by laserfire.
	Allin hung beside Carl in the cloud of clacking rubble that
circled Galgul, and he saw the problem. There was no cover
this close to the flightlanes. Plastique and handguns were
useless. The only thing to do was to scatter and wait for Carl to
attack.
	Carl looked overhead to see that the space for his recoil
was clear; then he sighted the lance on the

swarming needlecraft below and fired. The force of the
discharge flung him outward, and he spun with the bore of his
flight and fired three more bursts in the vicinity of the
hovering jumpships.
	The pounding roar of the first shot resounded from
inside the cracked-open sphere, and the nigrescent space
thudded with the rutilant explosions of needlecraft. The three
other pulses hit in quick succession. One of them banged into
the horizon of the sphere and gored a hole in it, clouting
nearby jumpships with molten fragments. One hit a jumpship
broadside and blasted it and the four around it into blazing
dust. The last missed entirely and boomed a long way off
among the circling scrag.
	Two nearby jumpships were left unscathed and they
swiveled in the direction of the firing, scanning for targets.
	To draw .their attention away from Carl, Allin signaled his
band to advance, and they dropped from their balled-up
coverts and slid along the fallpaths curving down into Galgul.
	Carl was a whip of arms and legs, still whirling from the
ungrounded' recoils. Allin, swooped over to him and grappled
him in a steadying bearhug.
	One of the jumpships had spotted the band, and the
blue light of its laser cannon trembled along the grinning seam
of its prow. With Allin stabilizing him, Carl aimed and fired
again. The direct hit inflamed the dust-shadowed sky.
	Allin whooped with excitement.
	An orange, searing bolt of laser light cut the air a meter
away, and he cried out again, in alarm. The stormy smell of
burned air billowed over them, and Allin swung Carl about to
face the jumpship that was diving toward them. The craft was
too close for a gravity burst. Carl snapped the lance into laser,
mode, hot
enough to cut open atoms, and fired a steady stream of white
starfire. The beam hit the black metal hull in a wincing flare of
vaporizing plasteel, and the jumpship screamed and swooped
toward them. Carl didn't flinch, and Allin held him tighter. The
chief's eyes were big with alertness as he watched the black skin - of
the jumpship peel away like burning wallpaper.
	\ The wail of laser-slashed metal bowled them backward the
instant before the jumpship's tormented hulk freight-trained by -
them, almost within reach. The drag of the plummeting craft
whipped Allin and Carl after .it, and they toppled behind.
Squealing with sparks and smoke, the jumpship plunged toward
Galgul and splattered into a firestrewn smear across the curve of
the metal horizon.
	Carl flapped for balance, and Allin gripped him by the collar
and, straining every instinct from a lifetime on. the fallpath,
tumbled, rolled, and sledded with Carl through the stinging smoke
into the grotto of the fractured sphere.
	The squad was watching them from the torn edge of the
massive stock chamber. A honeycomb of capsuled Foke dangled
toward the interior of the sphere. Allin jumped with Carl, and they
tumbled onto the buckled plasteel ledge. Carl swayed to his feet
with the help of several Foke and glanced around at the
crystalfaced shelves of inanimate figures. The weapon whined with
the release-signal the Rimstalkers had programmed into it.
	Warming lights came on, lighting up the grotto, and all the
capsules opened with a collective sigh.
	"Allin!" Carl pulled the chief away from his amazement at the
sight of thousands of stirring Foke. "We have to move quickly and
get the Foke to the Cloudgate. The zotl's whole army must be on
the way by now. I won't be able to hold them off for long. Take
them out

that way" He pointed through the glowering embers of. the
shattered jumpship cordon. "That'll keep this sphere
between us and the rest of Galgul."
	. "But that'll leave us wide open out there," Allin complained.
"We should travel along the edge of the fallpaths."
	"That'll take too long," Carl said. "You have to go straight
across the clearing. That's the fastest way to the Gate. Don't worry
about the zotl. Leave them to me. just get the Foke moving."
	Carl turned away from Allin and let the lance's slow humming
guide him in the direction of Eva& She was downward from where
he was, and he scampered over the warped surface of the ledge to
the sinuous, metal-coil scaffolding the zotl used as catwalks. On the
way down, he looked across the bowl of opened sleepunits and saw
scattered skirmishes where zotl guards with lasers in their pincer
grips were attempting to herd the Foke. But the humans
outnumbered the guards. From the upper ledges, Allin and his group
were lighting naphthal flares to guide the crowds toward the nearest
jump points for the fallpaths.
	The hum in Carl's lance led him onto a level packed with Foke
bustling to get out. He shouldered his way in the direction the hum
pointed until the bobbing heads and unfamiliar faces suddenly
hazed out of focus around a coraline-stitched black robe hooding a
cat-angled face with wide graygreen eyes. Carl's blood turned to
electricity.
	The next instant, Evoe saw Carl. Moments ago she had been
dreaming that she was old. In that dream, she didn't know what
was happening to her. She thought she was sick; she had never felt
such impuissance. The desire for rest seethed in her. Then Carl's face
appeared, sweet as bread. They made love in a jasmine-fusky grove.
And when they were done, she was herself
again, lavish with energy. The dream had burst into the grim
waking reality of Galgul. At first she thought the zotl had come
for her. But the chamber ceiling had been blown away, and she
could see the nests of fire and coils of smoke from the battle.
She emerged from her sleep capsule with a shivering heart and
was shocked to see everyone moving. She moved with them,
toward, the torn-open wall of the sphere where Foke were
waving flares. At the sight of Carl, her whole body pulsed. They
shoved through the crowd toward each other and collided into
an embrace that locked out the Werld.
	"Carl," the spice of her breath whispered along his cheek.
"I had the most wonderful dream of you. I knew you would
come back for me."
	Carl soaked up the ferny fragrance of her. This was the
pearled moment he had lived for. The feel of Evoe against him
was lustrous, and his heart warbled with jubilation. Everything
that was driven in him yielded. He stopped. It was not even
necessary to go on living, repeating the farewell. This was the
tip of being. From here he reached out with his soul and felt
the empty spirit, the vacant poise of everything. He could die
here.
	Tears welled in them to the very brink of their eyes. "Evoe-
" He searched for some scrap of language to dress his naked
feelings.
	Screams and the scuffle of a fight pulled. his attention
from her. A zotl guard was flying over the crowd, shooting its
laser wildly. Carl fired from the hip and smashed the thing to a
fireclot.
	He took Evoe's arm, and they moved with the crowd
toward the naphthal flares. Needlecraft slashed overhead, and
he unloosed another gravity pulse, dropping this one deep
into the sky so that the implosion would pull the needlecraft
away from the sphere. The

earnumbing thunder of the pulse roared hearing to a muffed,
bulging silence, and the encroaching needlecraft went off like
flashbulbs.
	The peristalsis of the crowd squeezed them up a wobbly
rampway to the melted-lookirfg edge of the sphere. The jump
point was before them, but Carl held back. He had to get
everyone out to complete the symmetry of his joy. While Evoe
used the naphthal flare to direct the crowds, Carl watched the
ash-choked sky. The flightlanes lifting away from Galgul
toward the Cloudgate beyond the rubble were crowded with
Foke. Needlecraft occasionally darted in from over the horizon
of the sphere to strafe the exodus, but Carl stabbed at them
with laser bolts and brought some of them down.
	After a while, the air attacks stopped. Allin had come
down from the crest of the stock chamber, his body sparking
with sweat. "We're all out," he announced.
	Some dim explosions sounded from within the building.
"Those are the plastique traps we set on the access ports. The
zotl are coming in from the back of this chamber. They'll have
lasers."
	Carl hugged Evoe. "Go with him," he told her. "I'll be
right behind you."
	"No." Her eyes were certain as a staring angel's. "I'm not
leaving you again."
	At the far end of the chamber, sparks flurried, and the wall
crumbled like incandescent cheese. The opening writhed with
the arachnid shapes of the zotl, and spurs of crimson laserfire
flicked across the chamber at them. One bright bolt scorched
the ground nearby and skipped vaporing plasteel between
Allin's legs. He stood firm, but his whole body grimaced,
anticipating the fleshmelting impact of a laser bolt.
	Carl gripped the hilt of the lance and twisted it through a
tight series of clicks until it snapped off. A
foam of purplesilver light frothed from the muzzle end of
the lance, and Carl quickly placed the weapon on the ground.
He grabbed Evoe, and with Allin they fled from the zotl attack
and the jumping clots of sightcramping radiance.
	In an eyeblink, the onrushing zotl and the sharp,
crisscrossing tracery of their laserfire vanished in a sheeting flow
of white incineration that nothinged everything before it.
	Allin led the jump to the fallpath. Evoe and Carl leaped
after him, hand in hand. They fell through a wind=flapping
drop before the fallpath lifted them like a song above the char
and the billows of killing smoke. Behind them,, the lance
squandered matter to light, and the zotl sphere blustered with
white fire. Ahead, the Foke rose out of the ruins on slants of
light.
	Carl and Evoe clamped their bodies together and sweeled
away from Galgul, riding the steep current of a fallpath
outward toward flamboyant cloud gorges iridescent with rain.

Epilog

	Caitlin, with her grizzled hair hanging over her small
shoulders, hooding the ruddy woodgrain of her face, stood at
the glass-paned door. She was staring across the patio at the
gazebo where Zeke sat motionless in a rocker, watching pillars
of rain move across the wide lawns. Stormlight shone
slantwise through the aspen, illuminating tall hedgerows
powdered with mist. Several months ago, she and Zeke had
been brought to this estate on Long Island by the
government. There were seventy-two of them then, people
with the highest chance of catching light. There were twenty-six
now.
	At the first letup in the rain, Caitlin opened the door and
walked across the glossy flagstones and the sequined grass to
the gazebo. Zeke didn't budge his stare from the sky, where
the clouds were hitting a cold front and shredding like galactic
vapors. His beard and hair had grown back in white goat tufts,
and his former
bulls had thinned to a skeletal frame. The zotl clawmarks on his
face and neck had faded to smoky bruises in his pale flesh like
striations floating in marble.
	"Two people in Maryland and one in Vermont have caught
light," she reported, sitting herself in the rocker beside him. "The
spores can't be contained."
	Since their internment, Caitlin had been coming to Zeke,
hoping to get from him some hope for her daughter. Instead, she
had found peace, the humbling of life to memory and perception
when all hope is lost.
	"Gentleness and love will survive," Zeke spoke, his voice
swollen with silence. He didn't care about the world's plight. The
remorseless agony of his zotl possession had purged him of all
caring. Pain and pleasure had become for him two ends of the same
board, the flimsy plank of his body; floating on a sea of electrons,
riding the long currents of time to wherever. .He felt more clarity
than any man alive.
	"What are you thinking?" Caitlin asked. The storm had
frenzied again; and needles of rain prickled her skin.
	"Why do people think heaven is up?" he replied. "I mean,
look at it. The sky is tearing itself apart. I wouldn't want to go up
right now"
	Caitlin grinned at that -thought and turned her attention to
the wheeling sky. She hadn't had a drink since, she was brought
here, yet at that moment power was flushing through her like a shot
of whiskey. The drugs that controlled her tremors usually left her
dense with torpor. Now, watching the storm clouds stampeding
like white bison, she was exhilarated: Something was going to
happen.
	"I'm leaving soon myself," Zeke said at last, and when his thin
black eyes touched hers, she saw the happiness in his harrowed
face. His short hair was bristly, and the blue regulation fatigues they
both wore

looked wrinkled and ill-fitting. She reached out to touch his
mottled hand, and a spark cracked between them. A gasp hissed
through her lips.
"You want it?" he asked.
"Yes," the old woman answered.
	Zeke peeled o$' a splinter from the arm of his rocker and
lanced his left thumb. He offered her his hand and its gem of blood.
	Caitlin's forefinger smeared the blood when a spark jumped to
it from his thumb. She brought her finger to her mouth, and the
taste of iron chilled her.
	That evening, one of the residents complained that Zeke was
glowing. Guards in bright-orange jumpsuits, hooded goggles, and
gasmasks found Zeke in the gazebo grinning with muscular ecstasy.
They took him to a protective chamber monitored only by cameras.
He wrote a note to Caitlin, and fifteen minutes later, he caught
light and vanished.
	Caitlin received the note the next morning at breakfast. Even
among the sinuous fragrances of coffee and toast, she could still
smell the blue scent of a windshaken mountaintop on the paper. It
read- .

Caity--
What goes up is
futileunless it goes
out.
-Z