The World At The End Of Time Part 14

He was also far from happy. For the first time in his life Wan-To began to feel trapped. His jolly little stellar home had become a prison, and his cell became less comfortable every day.

It wasn't getting smaller. Far from it. In fact, the star was entering its red giant phase. It had spent most of its young life turning hydrogen into helium, but now the central core was all helium ash, doing nothing at all but sitting there and waiting for the day when it could fuse into higher elements.

Meanwhile, the remaining hydrogen was in a thick, dense sh.e.l.l around the helium core. It was fusing faster than ever-producing more heat than ever-pressing ever more insistently on the mantle of thinner gases that surrounded it; and the mantle was bloating under the pressure.

Wan-To had never stayed inside a star as it left its main sequence before. He didn't like it.

To be sure, his physical safety was not in danger. Well, not in much danger, anyway-certainly not as much as risking a hurried flight of his own to another home. But the star had swelled immensely under the thrust of that inner sh.e.l.l of fusing hydrogen. If it had had planets, as Earth's Sun did, its outer fringes would have been past the orbit of Mars by now. It was a cla.s.sical red giant, swollen as huge as Betelgeuse or Antares-beginning to decay.

Did that give Wan-To more room? Infuriatingly, it did not. His star's ma.s.s did not increase. There was no more matter to fill that enlarged volume than there had been when it was its proper, normal size. Indeed there was less, because it was beginning to fall apart. The outer reaches of the star were so distant from the core and so tenuous-by Earthly standards, in fact very close to a vacuum-that the radiation pressure from within was actually shoving the farthest gases away from the star entirely. Before long those outer regions would separate completely to form that useless sh.e.l.l of detached gases called a planetary nebula.

And Wan-To knew that then nothing but the core would remain for him to occupy. A miserable little white dwarf, no larger than an ordinary solid-matter planet like the Earth-far too cramped to be a suitable home for anyone like Wan-To!

For that matter, he was too crowded already. He dared not risk any part of his precious self in those wispy outer fringes. He was imprisoned in the remaining habitable parts of his star, and worst of all he was blind. Photon-blind, at least; he could still detect neutrinos and tachyons and a few other particles, because they reached inside the outer sh.e.l.ls easily enough. But light couldn't, and neither could any other part of the electromagnetic spectrum, and his delicate external "eyes" had long since been swallowed up and ruined as his star swelled.

So Wan-To tossed and turned in the home that had become his prison, fretfully ignoring every call that came in. Each one, in fact, was a fresh annoyance, if not simply a trap.

Then a voice on the ERP pair called again, and this time it did not stop with his name. "Wan-To," it said, "this is Mromm. I am quite sure you are alive. I want to propose a bargain."

Wan-To paused, suspicious and worried. Mromm! After all these eons!

It was a great temptation to answer. He was tired of being lonely and imprisoned; and it was surely possible, at least barely barely possible, that Mromm's intentions were friendly. possible, that Mromm's intentions were friendly.

It was also possible, however, that they were not. Wan-To did not reply.

The voice came again. "Wan-To, please speak to me. The object that Haigh-tik destroyed wasn't you, was it? You wouldn't let yourself be caught that way, I'm positive."

Wan-To thought furiously. So it was Haigh-tik who was the killer! Or, alternatively, Mromm who was hoping to make Wan-To think he was innocent?

Mromm's voice sighed. "Wan-To, this is foolish. All the others are dead now, or hiding. I think Pooketih, at least, is simply hiding, but that comes to the same thing-he wouldn't dare to do anything just now, because then you or I might find him. I don't think there is anybody else. Won't you please answer me?"

Wan-To forced himself to be still. All of his senses were at maximum alert as he tried to decode Mromm's hidden meanings-if indeed they were hidden; if it weren't perhaps true that he was telling the truth?

And then Mromm, sounding dejected, said, "All right, Wan-To, I won't insist you speak to me. Let me just tell you what I have to say. I'm going to leave this galaxy, Wan-To. It's getting very unpleasant now. Sooner or later Haigh-tik will come out again, and he'll be just trying to kill everybody else off all over again-if there are any of us left. So I'm going away. And what I want to say to you, Wan-To is-please let me go!"

To all of that Wan-To was listening with increasing pleasure and even the beginnings of hope. If it were true that Mromm was leaving this used-up galaxy (and that sounded like a good idea, even if it came from Mromm), and that Haigh-tik was holed up and out of action at least for the time being, and all the others were either dead or, like Pooketih, terminally stupid . . .

"I'm going to take the chance, Wan-To," Mromm decided. "Even if you don't answer, I'm going. I'll never bother you again. But please, Wan-To remember! I'm part of you. part of you. You You made made me! Please be kind . . ." me! Please be kind . . ."

But by then Wan-To had long stopped listening to Mromm's foolish babble. He recognized a chance to escape when he saw it-and that meant he had to act now. now.

And so Wan-To left another galaxy behind. His objective this time was much farther away. Even as a pattern of tachyons, traveling many times faster than light, it would take a long time to reach it.

But that was all right; he had got away.

While Wan-To was in transit his thoughts were blurry and unclear; he would not be fully himself again until he reached the new galaxy and selected a proper star and used its energies to build the full majesty of himself anew. But, in his cloudy way, he was quite happy.

True, it was too bad that it had been necessary to destroy poor, trusting Mromm as soon as he left the shelter of his star, but Wan-To couldn't take chances, could he? And it meant he would be lonely for a long time-at least until he a.s.sured himself that any future copies of himself he might make for company would never, ever threaten him again.

But at least he would be safe. safe.

And, countless thousands of light-years away, traveling far faster than Wan-To and in a completely different direction, the doppel on Nebo at last gave up hope of instructions from its master.

What a tragedy that Wan-To had not antic.i.p.ated the presence of these strange matter-creatures! It meant that the doppel itself had to make the decision on what to do about them. And the doppel was not, after all, very smart.

CHAPTER 16.

Having a new life, even on the icy and starveling Newmanhome of 432 A.L., was purely wonderful-or should have been. It did have certain lacks.

The lack Viktor most felt was of Reesa, kept away from him except for the odd fugitive glimpse. He missed her. He thought of all the things he would like to talk over with her. He had imaginary conversations with her, which mostly had to do with his complaints about the food, the housing, most of all the job they had a.s.signed him to. (It did not occur to him, even in his fantasies, to tell her simply that he loved her.) And it was almost like talking to her really, because he was easily able to imagine her responses to his complaints: "Quit b.i.t.c.hing, Viktor. We were dead. dead. Everything after that is a big plus." Everything after that is a big plus."

And when he pointed out that they hadn't really been dead dead dead, just frozen dead: dead, just frozen dead: "That's dead enough for me. Dead for four hundred years. four hundred years. Remember that, Viktor. Maybe things will get better later. Maybe we'll even get a room to have for our own." Remember that, Viktor. Maybe things will get better later. Maybe we'll even get a room to have for our own."

"Maybe they'll even take me off the s.h.i.t detail," Viktor muttered bitterly to himself, "but I wouldn't bet on when."

But it wasn't really as good as talking to the real Reesa would have been, and besides the words that stuck in his mind were four hundred years. four hundred years. Even though they were Newmanhome years-no matter how you calculated it, it was two Earthly centuries. Half a dozen human generations-several human Even though they were Newmanhome years-no matter how you calculated it, it was two Earthly centuries. Half a dozen human generations-several human lifetimes! lifetimes! Except for Reesa herself, everyone he had ever known was long since dead, gone, moldered, and forgotten. He would never come back to friends, for every friend was dead-the ones he would miss, the ones he had loved, even the ones he was quite willing to spare-like Jake Lundy, now presumably a pinch of dust somewhere on the surface of the planet Nebo. It didn't matter who: they were absent. Every relationship he had ever had was over. Every conversation he had ever intended would have to be left forever unsaid. Everyone who had made up the furnishings of his life was-history. Except for Reesa herself, everyone he had ever known was long since dead, gone, moldered, and forgotten. He would never come back to friends, for every friend was dead-the ones he would miss, the ones he had loved, even the ones he was quite willing to spare-like Jake Lundy, now presumably a pinch of dust somewhere on the surface of the planet Nebo. It didn't matter who: they were absent. Every relationship he had ever had was over. Every conversation he had ever intended would have to be left forever unsaid. Everyone who had made up the furnishings of his life was-history.

He could never go back to them-least of all, to his family.

That thought was the worst of all. It brought Viktor a sharp interior pain that made him grunt. (The others working on the s.h.i.t detail looked at him curiously.) He would never see Yan or Shan again, or Tanya. Or little Quinn. They had all grown and aged and died hundreds of years before. They were gone, gone, and nowhere in the universe was there anyone to fill the empty s.p.a.ce their loss had left in his life. and nowhere in the universe was there anyone to fill the empty s.p.a.ce their loss had left in his life.

To be alive when everyone who mattered to you was dead, Viktor realized morosely, was not unlike being dead yourself.

With all that to weigh on him, the inconveniences of his present existence should have seemed quite trivial. They didn't, though.

Viktor knew, of course, that he hadn't been singled out, particularly, for a hard life. Everyone had a hard life now. There weren't any easy ones. Newmanhome was completely frozen over; the few thousand surviving human beings struggled for a threadbare existence in tunnels in the ground; everyone's everyone's life was a struggle and a hopeless yearning for something better. life was a struggle and a hopeless yearning for something better.

But these people certainly hadn't singled Viktor and Reesa out for any favors, either. The two unplanned and undesired new mouths to feed got the worst of housing, food-and, most of all, employment.

In other times it would have been different; weren't they special? special?

As Viktor worked crankily on his aptly named s.h.i.t detail he reflected on the injustice of it all. They should have been celebrities. When the early European sea explorers had brought savages home to show off to their crowned heads and dabblers in science-people like Hawaiians and Tongans, bushmen and Amerindians from the Virginia coast-at least the bewildered aboriginals had had the pleasure of being the centers of fascinated attention. They were sources of entertainment for their hosts. Everyone crowded to see them.

That kind of life wasn't all pleasure, of course. The savages had to get used to being poked and prodded, gawked at and questioned. They had no more privacy than zoo creatures. But then, if they were lucky, months or years later, stuffed with foods that made them sick, taught the civilized vices of gambling and getting drunk, and, luckiest of all, if they hadn't acquired tuberculosis or the pox along the way-then, perhaps, they were allowed to return to their homes a world away.

Viktor and Reesa were not that lucky. There was nothing amiable in the greetings they received; and, of course, they had no home to return to.

More accurately, they were were home. The tunnels and caves their captors lived in were on the same site as the town of Homeport they had left. Most of them were, anyway. The central common halls, the power plant with its endless trickle of geothermal heat, the freezers it fed-they were all on the hillside that had been just beginning to be covered with houses when Newmanhome's sun had begun to dim. The largest of the underground "towns"-the one belonging to the sect they called the Holy Apocalyptic Catholic Church of the Great Transporter-was under what had once been downtown Homeport. The Great Transporters weren't the only more or less independent tribe (or nation, or religion-anyway, a separate enclave that these paltry few had insisted on subdividing themselves into). Allahabad and the Reformers were along the sh.o.r.e, due west of the old town. The Peeps (actually they called themselves the People's Republic, and what their religion was exactly Viktor could not really tell) had even dug their warrens out under what had once been the bay, though now it was solid ice from bottom to top. home. The tunnels and caves their captors lived in were on the same site as the town of Homeport they had left. Most of them were, anyway. The central common halls, the power plant with its endless trickle of geothermal heat, the freezers it fed-they were all on the hillside that had been just beginning to be covered with houses when Newmanhome's sun had begun to dim. The largest of the underground "towns"-the one belonging to the sect they called the Holy Apocalyptic Catholic Church of the Great Transporter-was under what had once been downtown Homeport. The Great Transporters weren't the only more or less independent tribe (or nation, or religion-anyway, a separate enclave that these paltry few had insisted on subdividing themselves into). Allahabad and the Reformers were along the sh.o.r.e, due west of the old town. The Peeps (actually they called themselves the People's Republic, and what their religion was exactly Viktor could not really tell) had even dug their warrens out under what had once been the bay, though now it was solid ice from bottom to top.

It wasn't the geography that had changed for Reesa and Viktor. It was their home itself, the world they had lived in, that was gone.

The tunnel dwellers didn't waste light on the mushroom farm-that was one of the big reasons for raising mushrooms-and when Viktor reported for work he stumbled around in the stinking dark until his eyes adjusted.

He hated the job. He had every reason to, but he had no choice about it. No one on (or under) Newmanhome was unemployed. Everyone had work, for long hours of every day-well, every day but one. They did get days off now and then. The Greats would not work on Sundays, the Reforms on Sat.u.r.days, the people from Allahabad on Fridays-these because their religions forbade it; and the Peeps had elected to consider Tuesday their day off because, although they had no comprehensible religion of their own, they had an obsessive need to make sure none of the others had any privileges they could not share.

Viktor and Reesa were special cases. As soon as it was determined that they not only were not members of any of the four sects (and, indeed, had never heard of them before their freezing), they were put in the newly invented category of stateless persons who were ent.i.tled to no days off at all. And the jobs they got were the jobs no adult wanted.

Viktor had thought his boredom on Ark's Ark's long flight to Nebo was pretty close to intolerable. Now he looked back on it almost with longing, for his job on the "s.h.i.t detail" was a good deal worse. long flight to Nebo was pretty close to intolerable. Now he looked back on it almost with longing, for his job on the "s.h.i.t detail" was a good deal worse.

It wasn't only labor that wasn't wasted on Newmanhome. Nothing else was, either, not even excrement. When any person in the settlement had to relieve himself he followed strict procedures: Urine went into one vat, feces into another. The urine was processed to use its urea for nitrogen fertilizer for the underground crops. The feces became the most important const.i.tuent of the soil the crops were grown on.

Viktor got in on the ground floor. He was a.s.signed to the unlovely task of spreading the fresh dung in a dark, unbearably malodorous cavern, where mushrooms grew on its surface and worms and dung beetles mined it for their nourishment. He wasn't alone in the job. Reesa wasn't with him, of course-they were kept mostly separate until such time as the Four-Power Council should decide their fate-but there were four other laborers a.s.signed, one from each of the sects . . . and none of them older than Newmanhome twenty-two. Mooni-bet and Al-car, respectively Moslem from Allahabad and Reformer from the quarrelsome, allegedly Protestant-Christian sect, harvested worms and beetles to feed the chickens in the breeder pens-it meant scurrying around on top of the peatlike layers of excrement and scooping the little living things up with slitted spoon-like tools. Mordi, the Great Transporter girl, and Vandot, the boy from the People's Republic, harvested mushrooms, which was easier still. And that left Viktor the hard labor of shoveling. The fresh loads of dung had to be spread onto the fields for the mushrooms to grow on. When they had produced a few crops and had aged enough to be fit for fertilizing other things, those sections had to be shoveled into wheeled vats, to be taken and mixed with soil for the lighted grain-growing caverns.

It wasn't the work that Viktor minded most, not even the stink and the hostility of the children he worked with. It was not knowing knowing-not knowing so many things! He didn't know where Reesa was, he didn't know what the blindingly bright thing they called the "universe" was. (Though he was beginning to have some very strange suspicions about that; relativistic effects were at work.) On a more immediate level, he didn't even know what was being decided about his and Reesa's future, and none of his co-workers wanted to talk.

It wasn't just him. They didn't even speak to each other very often. The hostility among the adults of the four sects was shared by the children, who worked in silent, disagreeable concentration. But children are children, and can't stay silent forever.

The worms and dung beetles and mushrooms they harvested had to be carried out to the chicken farms or the food depots. One day when three of the children were away from the excrement chamber, dragging their hoppers of harvest to their destinations, the young girl from Allahabad ventured close to Viktor, looking up into his face.

"h.e.l.lo," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm Viktor. Which one are you?"

"I'm Mooni-bet," she said, glancing fearfully at the doorway. Then she whispered, "Is it true? Were you really on old Earth? Did you actually see Mecca?" Mecca?"

Viktor stared at her, startled. "Mecca? No, of course not. I remember California pretty well, and maybe even a little of Poland-but I was as young as you when I left. And, until we left Earth, I didn't get to do much traveling."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "You saw California? California? Where the Where the movie stars movie stars and the and the oil sheikhs oil sheikhs lived?" lived?"

"I don't remember any sheikhs or movie stars," Viktor said, amused, almost touched by the girl's naivete. "I mean, except on television-but I suppose you have the old tapes of that kind of thing, anyway."

"We do not look at graven images," the girl said sadly. "Not counting sometimes when we're working in the bean fields, anyway-the Greats have screens there, but we're supposed to turn away from them."

She had stopped her bug catching and was just standing there, gazing curiously at him. Viktor rested on his spade, aware of a chance that might not come again. "Tell me, Mooni-bet, do you know where my wife is working?" She shook her head. "Or whether they are going to give us a room of our own?"

"That is in the hands of the Four-Power Council," she explained. "You must ask your supervisor."

"I've asked him," Viktor said grumpily. His supervisor was the Great Transporter named Mirian. Mirian was not a communicative man, and he seemed to resent Viktor, probably as one more nasty ch.o.r.e added to his burden. "He just tells me to wait."

"Of course he does. That is right. The Four-Power Council will perhaps discuss your situation when they meet."

"And when will that be?"

"Oh, they meet all the time," she informed him. "Except holidays, I mean-they meet on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. But when they will come to your case I do not know. They have much to discuss about important questions, for both the Peeps and the Reforms are now on overload." She lowered her voice to a whisper as she spoke, looking around as though she were discussing something naughty. "I do not understand about that, but all is in the hands of Allah."

"Oh, sure," Viktor agreed. Then, as she started to turn away, he tried to prolong the contact. "Mooni-bet? Tell me one other thing, if you will. That very bright thing in the sky-"

"The universe, yes," she said, nodding encouragingly.

"That's what I mean. Why do you call it the universe?"

"It's its name, isn't it? The muezzins call it that," she told him. "I don't know why. I thought the universe was all around us, but they say that is no longer true."

He blinked at her. "No longer true?"

The girl shook her head. "I don't know what that means, only it is what we bow to in devotions. They say old Earth is there, along with everything else." She paused, then added helpfully, "My father said when he was a boy it was much brighter. I don't know what that means, either, only-" She broke off, then turned away. Over her shoulder she whispered, "They're coming back! Don't talk to me anymore, please!"

"Why not?" he demanded. "Can't we talk while we work?"

"We don't," don't," she whispered, looking agonizedly toward the returning workers. she whispered, looking agonizedly toward the returning workers.

"But I do," he said, smiling.

The three returning children stopped in the doorway, scandalized. The boy in the kilts of the People's Republic called menacingly, "I will report this!"

Viktor shrugged. "What is there to report, Vandot? I am simply talking; I have not been ordered to be silent, after all. If you don't want to listen, then don't listen. But I've been on Earth, and I am going to talk about what Earth was like, long ago, when I was young . . ."

And he did, shoveling the dung, while the mushroom cutters and beetle collectors lingered near him at their work. They glanced at each other diffidently, conscious that they were certainly bending the rules, if not breaking them outright; Mordi, the Great Transporter girl, was particularly uneasy, because she was the one from Viktor's own commune. But they were listening, all right. How could they help it? For Viktor was telling them about the traffic jams in the cities, the surf at Malibu, about flying in supersonic jets that crossed oceans in an hour. And about the experience of flying from star to star, when Mayflower Mayflower was whole and mighty. And about life on the colony when was whole and mighty. And about life on the colony when Mayflower Mayflower landed, and sailing across Great Ocean in warm sunshine, and walking in the sun on a green meadow . . . landed, and sailing across Great Ocean in warm sunshine, and walking in the sun on a green meadow . . .

And by and by they began to talk, too. After all, they were only children.

Even slaves have to eat, and finally Vandot announced that the workday was done. Because Mordi had an errand to run Viktor followed the little girl, Mooni-bet, back through the tunnels to the caverns of the Great Transporters. She was nervous there, among the hostile black-shrouded enemies of her people. She was glad to abandon him at the entrance to the grown-up dining hall, disappearing to hurry to her own tunnels; and when Viktor entered he found his supervisor, Mirian, just coming in. The man looked glum. That didn't discourage Viktor; it seemed to be Mirian's normal expression. Viktor turned to face him. "I've been asking about that bright spot you called the universe," he said, "but the kids I work with don't seem to know much about it. Can I ask-"

He didn't finish, because Mirian gave him an unfriendly look. "No," Mirian said, crossing himself.

"No what?" Viktor asked plaintively.

"No, we do not discuss that subject here. I know nothing about it. I wish to know nothing about it."

"All right," Viktor said, suddenly angry, "then tell me what you do know about. When can my wife and I have a room of our own?"

Mirian stared at him belligerently. "A room of your own!" he repeated, raising his voice sarcastically so others could hear. "He wants a room of his own!"

"But I have a right to that much!" Viktor protested. "I don't even know where Reesa is-"

"She is housed with the Moslems in Allahabad, since they are not on overload just now," Mirian informed him.

"Of course, I know that, but what I want to know-"

"What you want to know is none of your business! In any case, I don't want to talk to you about it-not until the Four-Power Council issues its orders, certainly."

"Why do you have to be so nasty?"

"What right do you have to complain?" Mirian snapped angrily. "You owe us your life! And I am paying for my charity in reviving you!"

Viktor was puzzled. "Paying how?" he asked.

"I should be up on that ship, doing my proper work! But because they blame me for reviving you, they sent me back down to this miserable-" He stopped there, looking around to see if anyone had heard his complaints. Then he closed his mouth with a snap and turned away. He squeezed between two others on a bench, conspicuously leaving no room for Viktor to join him.

When Viktor sat down at another table the strangers next to him were equally unwilling to talk. Viktor sighed and devoted himself to his stew of corn and beans. At least, he reflected, the children had given him a pretty good idea of the polity and customs of this new Newmanhome. The four sects did work together on common needs. The chambers of the Four-Power Council were common and kept separate from the living quarters of the sects. So were the food-producing caves, or most of them-Allahabad insisted on growing its chickens and gerbils separately, for dietary reasons, and the People's Republic chose not to share the grain and bean fields of the others. (They weren't really "fields," "fields," of course. They were stretches of tunnels where artificial light fed plants that were hydroponically grown; and the austere diet of the Peeps was even less varied, and even less tasty, than the meals of the other three communities.) The freezer caves, where they had long before stored the animals they could no longer afford to keep alive, were also common, though there wasn't much food in them anymore. (The children didn't want to talk about the freezers, for reasons Viktor didn't at first understand.) The geothermal power plant was common, along with the datastores. All four communities shared their benefits and their responsibilities-though there weren't many responsibilities, since the original builders had done good work. The four factions had no choice about maintaining their common possessions, of course; if the power plant failed they would all be dead in a day. of course. They were stretches of tunnels where artificial light fed plants that were hydroponically grown; and the austere diet of the Peeps was even less varied, and even less tasty, than the meals of the other three communities.) The freezer caves, where they had long before stored the animals they could no longer afford to keep alive, were also common, though there wasn't much food in them anymore. (The children didn't want to talk about the freezers, for reasons Viktor didn't at first understand.) The geothermal power plant was common, along with the datastores. All four communities shared their benefits and their responsibilities-though there weren't many responsibilities, since the original builders had done good work. The four factions had no choice about maintaining their common possessions, of course; if the power plant failed they would all be dead in a day.

But for most of their lives the sects stayed firmly apart. Great Transporters married Great Transporters, Moslems Moslems. The citizens of the People's Republic married no one, because they didn't believe in marriage, but they made love (on occasions directed by their leaders) only with their own. And all four communities tried their best not to have too many babies, all in their own ways, because there was barely food enough and heat enough and living s.p.a.ce enough for the twenty-two hundred human beings already alive on (or, rather, under the surface of) Newmanhome.