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Introduction to RESTORATION
One of the problems with subjectivity in a novel is how
it limits the author's voice. You are trapped in your character.
This is not necessarily a bad thing nowadays. Over-educated
authors with the internet only a browser away can easily
overwhelm a narrative with an excess of character
development and local colour.
However, what if your character is weird and
wonderful? How far can you go in being true to this
weirdness? I suppose it depends on the character. In
RESTORATION the heroine has little or no memory (due to
spending too much time in reality). She is also obsessive and
extremely determined (characteristics of artificials). She is
also charged with the mission of saving mankind (against its
better judgement).
You cannot easily live with such a character; she is
just too strange and because of the lack of memory too
empty. Yet you are possessed by something the atmosphere
of the world she inhabits, the odd insight you get into her
which sustains you between writing sessions. I developed the
habit of waking up at 5 AM each morning and spending two
hours letting that day's work as it were grow in me. And yet
what went down on the page was often a too simple, step-bystep narrative about a monomaniac woman and her derelict
world, written in an semi-literate phonetic English.
Sometimes I feared the onset of Alzheimers or the like and
developed a second habit of carefully scrutinising that day's
work as soon as possible, while the memory of what I
intended to write was still with me.
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Yet I got to know her so well. I was never sadder

finishing a novel. I miss her company. But she has gone back
into the oblivion of reality again, where she has become
someone else for the duration.

RESTORATION Summary
It is about a thousand years into the future. The world
is a dried out husk, most of the water having been exchanged
for omnium from the Other World. The human race is dying
out because most women can no longer bear children and the
alternatives don't work. Artificials are self-obsessed and
clones die of loneliness. The few natural offspring that there
are called natals rule the world as a time-serving
bureaucratic clique. The rest of the human race subsists on
what is known as Machine Maintenance, a superlatively
efficient welfare system that oversees life from incubation
bottle to render plant.
Into this hell on earth awakens the artificial woman
who will be known to some as Sophie. She has just lost her
fortune in the latest Bubble and so finds herself turfed out of
reality into the tender metal care of the Machine. Her
memory has been destroyed by her overlong sojourns in
reality, and her only consolation perhaps are the strange
dreams she has when she manages to sleep.
Even so, she is filled with an overwhelming desire to
journey across the desolated land towards the high towers on
the northern horizon. She doesn't know why she wants to go
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there, but she goes in any case if only because she cannot
do otherwise.
RESTORATION is about 100,000 words long.

RESTORATION

PHILIP MATTHEWS

Philip Matthews 2008

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Man begins to be afraid of the world which formerly

he has thought to control. Men admired nobody but
themselves, now they begin to be afraid of themselves.
Pope Pius XII

The death of Soloviev, my dear Feliks Feliksovich?

Prince Feliks Feliksovich makes his always-charming
little shrug, his small pink mouth puckering under the
somewhat floppy moustache. He knows he is charming, that
he charms, that the little circle about him now is charmed.
But it is such a wonderful story, dear Dmitri.
Feliks Feliksovich throws a quick ironic glance across
the carriage at the others seated facing them.
Cued, Vladimir Mitrofanovich leans forward in
earnest: Oh by all means, Excellency, the tale is so
diverting.
So Dmitri Pavlovich relents with grace, a playful smile
here too. In reflex, he puts the cigar in his mouth, but does
not draw upon it, bobbing his head instead. The light glints
on his bare scalp, where some talc has dislodged. The Grand
Duke does not like his pate to shine: he believes it contrasts
badly with his overly diffident eyes.
Besides, Feliks Feliksovich resumes, it will give a
context for our long journey. We will pass close to the spot
where it all happened.
Ahh, well, Dmitri Pavlovich says expansively. He
pauses to sniff at the tip of his cigar. Feliks Feliksovich
reaches at once for the box of lucifers on the occasional table
between them. He deftly extracts one a long black stick
tipped bright red and strikes it against the sandpaper strip
on the side of the box. It flares brightly, very brightly, with a
puff of white smoke. Dmitri Pavlovich brings his cigar into
contact with it and draws contentedly. Then he surveys the
smoking tip, the red glow already fading.
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You are so considerate, my dear Feliks Feliksovich.

As ever. Dmitri Pavlovich smiles a doting smile, a slight
rueful edge in his eyes though. You quite disarm me, you
know. He smiles what seems to be a smile of deprecation,
but continues: Now, Feliks Feliksovich, not the whole long
story? The smile firms, a sudden wariness glinting in his
eye: Please.
Feliks Feliksovich throws up his left hand, though he is
watching where he places the spent match across the rim of
the silver ashtray: Oh, of course not, my dear Dmitri
Pavlovich. We will select one episode, shall we? Feliks
Feliksovich looks around the company: Dmitri Pavlovich just
there to his left, seated on the other side of the table, Vladimir
Mitrofanovich and their fourth companion, the so-interesting
Sofya Vasilevna, both of whom are seated on either side of
another small table on the far side of the carriage. He smiles
his more open smile, the one for many people to see and to be
pleased to see.
Who shall choose? Vladimir Mitrofanovich? You?
Now he bows his head to the woman: Perhaps our gracious
guest should choose? Do you agree, Dmitri Pavlovich?
Perhaps we should ask Sofya Vasilevna to select an episode
for us. I would be only too happy to oblige her.
The Grand Duke compresses his lips: Ah, my dear
Feliks Feliksovich, I doubt the lady knows anything of the
tale. So how could she choose an episode for us?
Feliks Feliksovich knows this, of course, but he looks
expectantly at the woman opposite him, setting a cue here
too. The Grand Duke, too, looks across at the woman, his
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gaze wavering slightly when it encounters the excessively

strong expression on her face. Vladimir Mitrofanovich, too,
looks towards her, a more tolerant, even permissive,
expression on his face.
Sofya Vasilevna seems unaware of the collective gaze
of the men, of the pregnant silence. She is staring fixedly at
some point across the carriage, just to one side of the Grand
Duke. She does not blink for the duration of the mens stare.
A moment of loss. Then Vladimir Mitrofanovich leans
across the table and touches the back of Sofya Vasilevnas
hand. She gives a sudden start; almost immediately it is
converted into a turn of her head, a sharp enquiring stare.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich of course is deeply affected by
this. He knows immediately that he has done something
unpardonable. Sofya Vasilevna is no mere wife, companion,
adornment, but a woman of very real intellectual achievement
acknowledged so even by the Germans.
Sofya Vasilevna at once smiles when she registers
Vladimir Mitrofanovichs upset. She says:
I was counting my reflections in the mirrors.
The Grand Duke simply does not comprehend what
Sofya Vasilevna has said. He is pleased that her expression
has softened; he is pleased even more that she has an
attractive face, though matured and realised to the extent he
has only seen otherwise in accomplished generals. Given the
circumstance, it would delight him to kiss her lips.
The Prince? Well, Feliks Feliksovich is much more
adroit in these matters. He doesnt know what Sofya
Vasilevna has said either, but he at least realises that what she
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said is irrelevant. That is, irrelevant to him, and therefore also

to his companion, Dmitri Pavlovich.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich is also a companion of sorts to
the Prince and the Grand Duke, but as a relatively poor noble
from one of Imperial Russias newer provinces there is an
element of dependency that precludes easy intimacy with
high born aristocrats, connected as they are by blood with the
imperial dynasty. So, he places all his attention on Sofya
Vasilevna, actually hearing her words and very quickly
comprehending them.
Mirrors. The carriage seems full of them: only now
does Vladimir Mitrofanovich realise this. He has been seated
at the little table, with Sofya Vasilevna across from him on
his right, and with the Prince and the Grand Duke seated
about another little table on the opposite side of the carriage,
for some time now without ever noticing that a full length
mirror fills the wall opposite, and that another full length
mirror runs along behind him.
At once Vladimir Mitrofanovich is blinded by the light
of the row of lamps suspended from the ceiling above
reflected repeatedly in the two mirrors. He gasps: surprise,
even a completely unexpected terror. An atavistic terror like
a door suddenly opened to reveal something unexpected yet
known intimately.
Sofya Vasilevna turns at Vladimir Mitrofanovichs cry.
She is touching the spot on the back of her left hand that he
had touched. She explains:
An amusement, really, Vladimir Mitrofanovich. There
are an infinite number of reflections in a case like this,
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though of course we see only a few of them. Sofya

Vasilevna pauses. She looks over at the Prince and the Grand
Duke. But of course you gentlemen will be aware of this.
She pauses again, letting her gaze drift away from the men to
return to her own reflection in the mirror opposite, sitting it
would seem too close to the Grand Duke. In fact, so close
that his cigar if it were lit, as it appears not to be now
would burn a hole through her dress at a point just above her
knee.
She smiles, checks herself with a little cough, then
says, turning again to Vladimir Mitrofanovich:
Actually, Vladimir Mitrofanovich, there is only one
reflection of me.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich hears this, even comprehends
the meaning of the words, but what preoccupies him at the
moment is the problem of precedence that is arising here.
Really, Sofya Vasilevna should not be explaining these
thoughts to him. It might well be that he is the only person
here as a fellow university graduate who might appreciate
what she is saying, but propriety demands that she should
address her words to the senior ranks in the company.
It is an extremely awkward moment in what so far has
been a smooth and urbane conversation. But it is a difficulty
facing Vladimir Mitrofanovich only understandable
perhaps given the ambiguity of his own social position here
(even Sofya Vasilevna, the daughter of an old Great Russian
noble family, though of only moderate fortune, outranks
him). For his part, Prince Feliks Feliksovich can make his
own rules as the occasion requires, knowing that he has the
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unquestioned support of his friend, Dmitri Pavlovich. He

knows that what Sofya Vasilevna is in the course of
discussing is totally irrelevant. He also knows that Sofya
Vasilevna will exhaust her topic before she will take note of
anything else after all, the question of which part of the
story about the death of Soloviev should be recounted as a
means to passing the time before dinner is probably an
irrelevance for her. So he says with his airiest voice:
And what, my dear Sofya Vasilevna, are we to make
of that?
The Grand Duke has discovered that his cigar has gone
out again. Feliks Feliksovich expertly strikes up another
lucifer. The Grand Duke puffs on his cigar until there is a lot
of smoke and all can hear the low crackle as tobacco leaf is
consumed by fire. His word of thanks is surprisingly muted.
Even the Grand Duke realises that the stage as it were
belongs to the very interesting Sofya Vasilevna.
For her part, Sofya Vasilevna is momentarily surprised
by this attention. Not that she is not used to gaining the
attention of men; no, only that the attention seems to her out
of proportion to what she has said.
Make of it, Prince Feliks Feliksovich? Her moue is of
course a trifle exaggerated: Sofya Vasilevna has a mouth
made for such a moue. Well, for one thing, gentlemen
Sofya Vasilevna expands her address in accordance with the
reaction of the men to her facial gesture your reflections
are not repeated ad infinitum, as people like to believe. It is
the reflection that is reflected, and that only once. Then the
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second reflection is reflected to create the third reflection.

And so on and so on.
The men accept all this with a remarkable composure,
just as her students do when she lectures them. But who will
respond?
It is obvious that Vladimir Mitrofanovich is bursting to
make a statement. But he is eyeing the Prince and the Grand
Duke nervously, trying to gauge which of them will reply
first. The Prince should be the likely candidate; he is the wit
among them. However, Feliks Feliksovich seems adrift,
perhaps suddenly bored in his feckless way. The Grand Duke,
for his part, has his cigar jammed deeply into his mouth, his
lips pulsing around its stem as though trying to draw it in
deeper still. It looks as though Vladimir Mitrofanovich might
be able to make his observation, after all. He takes a deep
breath, trying to frame the profound observation he feels it
necessary to make.
Dmitri Pavlovich takes the cigar from his mouth and
asks with perfect sincerity: One reflection only, you say,
Madame?
Sofya Vasilevna grants him her sunny smile, as she
would any responsive student. One reflection only,
Excellency. She looks around the compartment. No need
for so many mirrors.
Dmitri Pavlovich inhales deeply, evidently very
pleased with their little chat. He nods slowly, a large soft
movement, bearish but endearing. The mirrors? He looks at
the long mirror behind Sofya Vasilevna, seeing himself
looking at himself. Ah, my dear Sofya Vasilevna, they are
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intended to create a sense of space in our cramped quarters.

How else are we to endure being cooped up here for another
twelve hours?
In reflex, Sofya Vasilevna looks up, sees the row of
lamps five lamps suspended along the centre of the
ceiling. Then she sees them reflected repeatedly in the mirror
opposite, an intense clamour here she finds disturbing in a
vague way.
There must be relevance now, for Feliks Feliksovich
has become alert again:
And the light, Frau Professor a dry irony in his
voice at this point, to be interpreted as an indication that
Sofya Vasilevna may be taking herself just that bit too
seriously we must have brightness too, must we not? To
light our reflected space, yes?
The address hurts. It is the first time anyone in Russia
has used that title, but it had been done with a French tone of
the arcade, where everything becomes a joke. Her initial
response is a Russian one: heart ripped out, bleeding on the
Bokharian rug at their feet. Her second response is perhaps
appropriately, though not meant as ironical German, the
Academic formality, where everything is taken seriously. She
even nods sagely as she speaks:
Yes, Prince Feliks Feliksovich. Though it is worth
considering how the light intensifies in a space that does not
actually exist.
Oh now, Dmitri Pavlovich murmurs, glancing first at
Feliks Feliksovich then letting his gaze linger dotingly on
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Sofya Vasilevna. Just like a father overseeing a spat among

his children.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich can no longer contain himself.
He does want to impress Sofya Vasilevna and he also wants
to defend her.
Like the light of the Spirit shining in the Soul!
Vladimir Mitrofanovich can not control the rising pitch
of his voice. He is stunned to hear himself breaking into an
Old Believer rant. Feliks Feliksovich also catches Vladimir
Mitrofanovichs surprise:
Ah, our Russian philosopher speaks at last.
Irony here too, of course, no less cutting for the
lightness of touch. Yet there is also a testing mockery. Poor
Vladimir Mitrofanovich cringes, already embarrassed by his
outburst saying the correct thing but in the wrong way.
Irony he is used to; too sincere to practice it himself, he has
developed a deafness to it, contenting himself with
uncovering the implied real meaning therein. But the
mockery! So rare an event that Vladimir Mitrofanovich is
quite disarmed. Almost as though Feliks Feliksovich is
inviting him to is it to heal him? Or perhaps explain
something to him?
As a philosopher as a Russian philosopher, that is
Vladimir Mitrofanovich is very willing to heal tortured souls,
even to take the time to explain modern circumstances. He
turns eagerly towards Feliks Feliksovich while Dmitri
Pavlovich says, still gazing in a fatherly way upon Sofya
Vasilevna:
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Of course, it is the mirror that creates civilization, my

dear Madame. Waves his free hand expansively (his cold
cigar is cradled comfortably in his lap): People say it is
because we can thus see ourselves and so become selfconscious. Big smile, raised eyebrows. And vain, of
course. Dmitri Pavlovich nods now, eyes suddenly shrewd:
obviously not often does he have a serious audience. No,
Sofya Vasilevna. It is, as the good Feliks Feliksovich
observed, the light. The Grand Duke nods towards the
Prince. And, I might stress, it is, as our modest friend,
Vladimir Mitrofanovich, has stated it. The light increased in
what you call the non-existent reflected space in fact does
shine forth in us. There you have the birth of human
consciousness, my dear.
Sofya Vasilevna is very surprised by this little speech;
no one else is. She frowns. Feliks Feliksovich is the first to
respond to this, as might be expected:
Be careful of what you say in the company of Dmitri
Pavlovich, dear Sofya Vasilevna. He is adept at thinking
other peoples thought for them, as you have just seen.
Sofya Vasilevna continues to frown. It is as though she
has found herself in a mad house. She says, spontaneous and
honest:
I dont know what you are talking about. None of
you.
Three faces lean towards her, each filled with that
wonderfully reasonable virtue of those who know something
that you do not know and are prepared to impart that
knowledge to you. There is the matter of social precedence,
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of course, but there is also the question of the truth here,

which will claim an absolute precedence.
The three men struggle between themselves for an
instant or two. First Feliks Feliksovich opens his mouth, then
closes it again. Then Vladimir Mitrofanovich bobs his head
up, pert like a bird about to sing; then he subsides again. The
Grand Duke smiles, more than a little complacent by now,
and settles down to delivering some more nuggets of acquired
knowledge.
There is a rustle of clothing: You see how science
points always towards the Spirit, yet cannot utter the Spirit.
How the telescope can see only so far; how the microscope
can see only so near. How the products of science cannot
live, yet they die.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich cannot believe that he has just
spoken. He even puts his hand over his mouth.
Feliks Feliksovich makes one of his little coughs, then
raises his hand and clicks his fingers twice.
A humble little man dressed like a serf of the old days
trots into the compartment. Feliks Feliksovich indicates, hand
this way, then fingers that way. It is enough. The little man
scurries away again.
This activity has broken the spell in the room, as no
doubt it was designed to do. It is Sofya Vasilevna who
breathes first, deeply, her well-camouflaged bosom rising
appreciably. Dmitri Pavlovich, for his part, fiddles with his
cigar until Feliks Feliksovich does the necessary to reignite it.
Only poor Vladimir Mitrofanovich is properly abashed,
feeling like an utter fool.
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The little man has returned bearing a tray, on which a

large bottle and four small glasses are arrayed in some order:
bottle in the centre and glasses at cardinal points.
A glass of vodka will lighten our mood, I believe.
So the servant serves each a brimming glass and each
tips the glass back. Its all done in a moment. Each inhales
deeply; each thinking that only vodka can heal the Russian
heart.
There are some zakouskis.
No one is hungry yet.
Fine. Feliks Feliksovich dismisses the servant with a
flick of his hand. He brushes the front of his jacket down.
Perhaps now we can ask Sofya Vasilevna to make her
choice for us.
Sofya Vasilevna stands up. The three men
immediately stand up too, Dmitri Pavlovich fussing with his
cigar, which has dropped ash into his lap.
If you will excuse me, gentlemen, Sofya Vasilevna
says, throwing her glance to the left. Each man nods
respectfully.
She pulls aside the heavy velvet drape green towards
the brilliantly lit sitting compartment, deep red towards this
other compartment, lit by one small lamp only. There is a
broad divan along one wall, brightly patterned cushions laid
randomly over its surface. Two easy chairs, upholstered in
the French manner, and a small table between them along the
other. The walls themselves are decorated with a scene
depicting a pleasure garden lit at night, paper lanterns in
many colours, little meandering pathways leading to dark
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nooky spots among the trees. A cabinet sits on the table, flush
with the wall. It will contain drink bottles wines and spirits
glasses, pretty little boxes filled with sugar confections,
chocolates. Sofya Vasilevna spots the other cabinet, the one
under the table. This will contain those appliances that
prevent accident from marring pleasure.
At the end of this compartment is the room that Sofya
Vasilevna wants, the water closet. There is no great pressure
on her bladder, she simply wants a break from the company.
She unbuttons the front of her dress to ease the pressure on
her breasts. Always she must compress her bosom: a man
looks at a womans bosom and she is at once headless. Not an
encouraging thought just now. The vodka has deflated her;
the aridity of the mens chatter touching the darkness in her.
As always, she will walk through the depression. And as she
walks she will think.
Backwards and forward in the confined space, she
thinks of Euler, as she always does. She imagines first a body
suspended in empty space, perfectly still, perfectly alone.
Then she pictures a smaller body approach and go into an
orbit about the original body. The smaller body call it the
Moon is now circling about the larger body that can be
called the Earth. Now, Sofya Vasilevna proceeds to calculate
the motion of the smaller orbiting body around the larger
body. She does this in an uncanny way. She can picture the
elements of Eulers equations for this calculation in sequence
and watch something like a magic light move across the
symbols. What she watches is not a play of numbers; more
like a play of special forces, mathematical forces that
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formulate the actual movement of an actual moon around a

larger planet.
Thus she pictures first:
Then follows:
And the last line:
The spectral light moves along the lines and Sofya
Vasilevna feels as though she is charged with knowledge,
much as a battery can be charged with electrical force. Now
she can move towards the culmination of this particular
meditation: she assents and at once she sees within herself the
array of integrals:

It is lit entire by that wonderful light, and for a time

Sofya Vasilevna sees the whole panoply of the mathematical
forces that describe the orbit. It is a unique vision reserved
only for those gifted as she is seeing the operation of the
cosmic forces in their essence.
Seeing them as God would see them.
Sofya Vasilevna holds this vision for just so long, then
she opens her eyes. She sees before her the plain varnished
wood that lines the water closet, lit dimly by a single lamp.
She breathes a long slow breath.
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She is calm. Calm again.

A curious calm: not quiet, more like a potential, like an
animal coiled to spring, to run.
Passing through the comfort chamber, she explores the
cabinet above the table for a suitable confection to sweeten
her breath. There is French nougat, extremely rich and
chewy. There is also a bottle of Klnwasser to be sampled.
Sofya Vasilevna sprinkles it on her breasts, then buttons up
her dress. A very good toilet water.
Feliks Feliksovich looks up upon her entry. Dmitri
Pavlovich might be dozing; Vladimir Mitrofanovich is
certainly lost in a daydream.
You know, my dear Sofya Vasilevna and I would
not normally make such an observation but is it not strange
that such a significant event such a grand occasion should
attract only five subscribers in all of Moscow High? Feliks
Feliksovich pauses to allow Sofya Vasilevna make a
comment, should she wish to. Sofya Vasilevna is reseating
herself at the little table opposite to Vladimir Mitrofanovich,
who is now in the process of returning to the land of the
living. She fusses that little bit chewing delicious nougat as
mutely as she can arranging the skirt of her dress around
her knees as a distraction. It is obvious by now that Sofya
Vasilevna does not wish to offer an opinion on the matter.
And three hundred years since its last performance,
you know. This is Dmitri Pavlovich, very conversational
tone, eyes still closed. It feels like someone had to respond to
Feliks Feliksovichs observation. It also feels that the Prince
and the Grand Duke have had this conversation before.
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Sofya Vasilevna has finally finished chewing the

nougat. She licks the remaining sugar off her lips, doing this
in an indirect way, as though she finds her lips dry. Vladimir
Mitrofanovich is watching her avidly, his nostrils flared
obviously the very suggestive scent of the Klnwasser has
reached him. He says, staring at Sofya Vasilevna, voice
uncertain as he fights a shortness of breath:
They say, Feliks Feliksovich, that the staging of the
opera is controversial. He must tear his eyes away from
Sofya Vasilevna and look over at the Prince. This has a worse
effect on his breathing, so that he stutters: Th-the prodproducers are s-said to
Oh, I would not believe half of the gossip going
around about it, my good Vladimir Mitrofanovich. Dmitri
Pavlovichs interruption is unpardonable no doubt an
irritation with Vladimir Mitrofanovichs inexplicable
hesitation (Dmitri Pavlovichs eyes are still closed) but his
intention is well meant, to protect Vladimir Mitrofanovich
from further embarrassment. You know how it is, my friend,
so many look for excuses, as usual.
Now Dmitri Pavlovich opens his eyes, sees the
returned Sofya Vasilevna for the first time. His gaze is frank:
he believes he cannot offend. He sits more upright. The cigar
looses ash into his lap, but he pays no attention.
My dear Sofya Vasilevna, sometimes I forget how
beautiful you are. How utterly radiant you can be.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich nods fervently at this, eyes
fixed on her bosom though his head jerks up and down.
22

Feliks Feliksovich is uncharacteristically forthright:

Theres always gossip about these events, Vladimir
Mitrofanovich. The best thing to do is ignore it all.
There is silence. Sofya Vasilevna is looking towards
Feliks Feliksovich as towards a neutral point in the
compartment: a way of avoiding the intense gazes of the
other two men. Feliks Feliksovich reaches down for the box
of matches. It is a deliberate and slow movement. The match
strikes the sandpaper with a ragged, grating sound; the flare
that follows is intense, bright and smoky.
Dmitri Pavlovich turns on reflex to present his cigar for
lighting. Vladimir Mitrofanovich looks down into his own
lap, eyes swivelling from side to side: caught out again.
I suspect some trick, my dear. Dmitri Pavlovich is
wreathed in fragrant cigar smoke, quite contented with
himself. I agree one must have a trick to enable one to get
through the longuers of these occasions. For my own part, I
dont know why we do not each retire to bed for the
duration. He smiles a twinkling smile, shiny scalp echoing
this brightly. No doubt were all afraid of missing
something. Eh, Feliks Feliksovich ?
The Prince is used to these games. He waggles his
shoulders in good humoured conceit, inviting Sofya
Vasilevna by this means to smile also, to join in the fun. For
her part, she observes:
A few good breaths suffice, Grand Duke. Perhaps a
cleansing thought, too.

23

She has spoken briskly: a liberty available to her

among the hypocrisies of polite company. Dmitri Pavlovich
takes this is good part:
Indeed, my dear. But the only good breath I know of
must contain a good measure of cigar smoke. He laughs
actually, he chortles then his breath catches in the heavy
phlegm lurking deep in his throat. The Grand Duke coughs a
loud hacking cough.
Feliks Feliksovich grimaces quickly: the Grand Dukes
coughing fits can last quite a while.
Now Vladimir Mitrofanovich leans forward, head
down almost to the level of the table as though he strives to
get below the new commotion:
You know the Doctor has attended the rehearsals? In
San Francisco!
Now now, Vladimir Mitrofanovich, Feliks
Feliksovich is quick to switch his attention from the red-faced
Grand Duke: You know that the Doctor is a fervent gossip.
A most committed chatterbox. Surely you do not mean to
pass on his tittle-tattle as fact?
Vladimir Mitrofanovich sits upright in his chair. He
blushes. His eyes, though, are steely.
The Doctor knows more about opera than any of us,
Feliks Feliksovich. Do you deny that?
The Prince bristles. He naturally dislikes being crossed,
but he dislikes more being caught out.
Dmitri Pavlovich gets his coughing under control with
some effort. He is breathless.
24

No one doubts the Doctors knowledge, Vladimir

Mitrofanovich. What we question are his opinions.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich quails; just like that: turning
his face away as though struck. Sofya Vasilevna comes to his
defence even before she has considered the wisdom of her
action:
Perhaps so, Grand Duke, but are we not competent to
make our own judgements on his opinions?
She has managed a more emollient tone than she
expected, a nice balance of (matronly) rebuke and (maidenly)
ingenuity. It works very well indeed. Dmitri Pavlovich goes
back to coughing, rumbling barks like aftershocks. Feliks
Feliksovich, for his part, throws his hands up and says airily
as though answering a question:
Well, perhaps I should outline the story for Sofya
Vasilevna. Then she would be in a position to choose for us;
that is, choose which part of the tale should be recited here.
Everyone sighs audibly. It might be the tedium of the
long journey in such a confined space. Or it might be
boredom at the prospect of listening to the Princes story. It
could be both.
Feliks Feliksovich makes his polite little cough: Well
now, my friends, these events occurred about ten years ago.
Back then I was sojourning on my familys estates on the
shores of the Caspian Sea. As an aside, I may tell you that I
had gone there with my father, who had plans to introduce
the cultivation of cotton on a large scale to the region.
Though my father spent a number of years working hard to
achieve his aim, it all came to nothing. In Russia we refer to
25

our possessions in the east as estates, but in fact they are huge
areas of tribal lands of which we are now the ruler. And while
these peoples are willing to pay the tribute we demand, they
have no intention of changing their very ancient way of life
for us.
Well, be that as it may. I spent most of the summer
there. Then, as autumn approached, I was informed that a
group of my friends let me call them friends, it will do for
the purpose of my tale had gathered at an old monastery
near Bokhara. I hurried to join them. We had long planned to
explore the wide territories of eastern Turkestan extending up
to the Chinese border. There were, of course, reasons for our
wanting to do this, some of which I am not at liberty to reveal
to you here.
Oh now, my dear Feliks Feliksovich, surely you can
tell us something about Sarman? Let us have a glimpse, at
least. This is Dmitri Pavlovich, smiling benignly at his
friend, bright eyes set off by his shiny pate.
The Prince is startled, his head jerking forward as
though the Grand Duke had struck him physically.
It is not relevant, my dear Dmitri Pavlovich. Surely
you of all people must know that.
The Grand Duke bobs his head in easy agreement:
That may be so, Feliks Feliksovich, but some knowledge of
the background to your adventures in Asia will help fill out
your tale. After all, it is common knowledge that you have
been involved with the Theosophicals since your youth. You
yourself told me once how you and you brother agreed that
26

whichever of you died first would return and appear to the

survivor. To prove survival of the soul after death.
Again Feliks Feliksovich looks as though he has been
struck hard. Dmitri Pavlovich reaches this time and places his
hand on his shoulder.
Yes, I know he died in tragic circumstances, and no
doubt fulfilling that pact was the last thing on your mind at
the time. He presses the Princes shoulder in consolation.
But you also told me something else, my dear Feliks
Feliksovich, which I have thought about many times over the
years. I tell you truthfully that it is the most profound thing
that I have ever heard. Dmitri Pavlovich now turns to
Vladimir Mitrofanovich and Sofya Vasilevna who have
been sitting somewhat dumbfounded by the indiscretion of
the Grand Duke and continues:
Feliks Feliksovich here once told me that he did not
believe anyone could become a Christian during one lifetime,
that is, hope to achieve salvation and the right to eternal life.
Dmitri Pavlovich glances at the Prince, hoping to draw him
away from his misery. When Feliks Feliksovich remains
silent though his features do soften he turns back to the
other two: It is for this reason that Feliks Feliksovich accepts
the doctrine of reincarnation. Is that not so, my dear friend?
Feliks Feliksovich must nod, compressing his lips in an
ambiguous reaction: was he angry with the Grand Duke now,
or was he embarrassed by the intimacy of this revelation?
Dmitri Pavlovich seems unconcerned.
So you see how my friends beliefs do affect the
nature of his experiences in the east. It is easy to understand
27

what drove him to search for ancient knowledge there, for

instance.
Sofya Vasilevna seems galvanised. She has leaned
forward in her seat, head down but face upturned towards the
Grand Duke. She looks very baleful.
No, most definitely not!
It is Feliks Feliksovich who is most surprised by her
reaction.
Whyever not, Sofya Vasilevna? Is it not a reasonable
assumption to make?
Sofya Vasilevna sits back again in her chair. It seems a
theatrical gesture, done for effect. She puts her hand to her
temples.
We are in this world in order to live in this world,
Feliks Feliksovich, not to pine to return to wherever we came
from.
It is now Vladimir Mitrofanovichs turn to be shocked.
That is rank materialism, Sofya Vasilevna. I know you
are a scientist, but as a Russian woman are you not ashamed
of yourself?
Sofya Vasilevna jumps to her feet. She draws in a deep
breath. Her eyes are dancing with excitement. She glares at
each of the men in turn.
You all misunderstand me! She coughs. A searing
pain runs up her right lung. Sofya Vasilevna knows she must
not allow herself to give way to passion. She takes a series of
short quick breaths. The pain becomes a dull ache in the
lower part of her lung. We are put on this earth in order to
study and understand it.
28

Vladimir Mitrofanovich badly wants to make peace

with her: But how can that be a spiritual activity, Sofya
Vasilevna? This world is only evil.
Sofya Vasilevna sits down. She swallows once, then
again. The sugar of the nougat she ate has burned her throat
and windpipe. She will become hoarse very quickly.
Nothing is intrinsically evil, Vladimir Mitrofanovich.
There is nothing that is not spiritual in some way or other.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich is very surprised to hear this
said. Feliks Feliksovich makes a hissing sound to draw their
attention, then says:
But why study what God already knows, my dear
Professor?
Sofya Vasilevna glances involuntarily at the Grand
Duke, who seems to have gone back to dozing. She is very
reluctant to speak. Vladimir Mitrofanovich is quick to fill the
gap:
God has already revealed what we need to know in
this life.
Now there is the rasp of a match. The Grand Duke has
relit his cigar himself and is puffing earnestly on it. His eyes
twinkle amid the smoke, resting as ever on Sofya Vasilevna.
He finally takes the cigar out of his mouth and observes in his
airiest manner:
Reincarnation would make history such a fascinating
subject, dont you think? I mean, if it were accepted as true.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich shrugs his shoulders, thus
betraying an irritability that he knows he must suppress.
29

But dont you see, Excellency, that Sofya Vasilevna

implies that God does not know everything?
Dmitri Pavlovich waves his cigar at him: Oh come
now, my good Vladimir Mitrofanovich. Tell me, were there
steam engines in Eden? And what of the telegraph? And the
new lighting?
They are using electric lighting in the production,
interjects Feliks Feliksovich in an agreeable conversational
tone. Wont that be wonderful? They say that everything
will have to be spotlessly clean!
Feliks Feliksovichs laughter is very good indeed, very
infectious. Dmitri Pavlovich chortles in accompaniment, the
soft flesh of his flanks visibly quaking under his tight jacket:
And a man especially employed to keep the shoes of
the cast clean, you know.
The ruse works. Vladimir Mitrofanovich and Sofya
Vasilevna seem suitably deflated. Feliks Feliksovich says, a
forefinger scratching the flesh just under his ear:
Where was I now? Oh yes. We travelled far into the
east, right up to the Chinese border, in fact. To the very edge
of the Gobi Desert
Sofya Vasilevna can no longer contain herself:
But dont you see? What will happen when man
begins to learn those things that God does not know? Do you
believe we could bear the burden of such knowledge? The
last words are uttered as a croak. Sofya Vasilevna is angry
with herself for not phrasing her questions better.
Do you know something that God does not know,
Sofya Vasilevna? This is Vladimir Mitrofanovich, an
30

expression of fear, incipient loathing, incipient awe on his

honest face.
The Grand Duke booms out: Please! Can you not have
respect for Feliks Feliksovich? We have agreed to listen to
his storytelling, therefore let us sit quietly. He smiles at
Sofya Vasilevna. And let us keep the philosophy for the
Academy.
Silence. Then Vladimir Mitrofanovich whispers for
Sofya Vasilevnas ears only: God must be in all our
knowledge, for otherwise we could not know.
Now Dmitri Pavlovich looks pained, like a forbearing
parent: Vladimir Mitrofanovich! Please.
Silence again. After a suitable interval, Feliks
Feliksovich gives his little cough, then resumes:
The Gobi Desert. Perhaps the last true wilderness on
our world
Sofya Vasilevnas throat is on fire and it hurts to speak,
but speak she must:
And you call yourself a Christian, Vladimir
Mitrofanovich?
Complete silence now. The expression on Vladimir
Mitrofanovichs face is one of extreme anguish. He does not
understand. He begins to weep, quietly.
Sofya Vasilevna looks across at Feliks Feliksovich and
nods curtly.
The Gobi Desert is the last wilderness in our modern
world. And believe me, our journey to that region was very
arduous. It was necessary to make our way up river courses
through deep chasms, then toil over several high mountain
31

passes. However, we arrived at a small town on the edge of

the desert towards the end of that year. Now, our purpose in
making this long trek was to discover if the tales we had
heard concerning towns and villages even great cities
buried beneath the sands of the Gobi were true. We set out to
win the confidence of the inhabitants of the town and its
surrounding villages. Bit by bit we received confirmation that
some of these legends were in fact true. Not only were cities
and towns submerged in the sand, but whole civilizations
dating from very ancient times were said to lie intact under
the desert, complete with their temples and treasures.
There are of course difficulties in these matters. For
one thing, these secrets had been entrusted to certain families
alone, where they were handed down from father to son over
many generations. Such secrets were considered sacred trusts,
and required the making of solemn vows before they were
passed on to the next generation. So, as you can appreciate,
some circumspection was needed. We were willing to reward
useful information money was no object here but always
we had to contend with the problem of these vows, which the
informants believed would lead to the destruction of whole
families if they were broken.
In the end, however, we managed to devise a way of
receiving useful directions to the location of a particularly
important ancient city buried intact in the north-eastern sector
of the desert. This area was away off the known routes across
the Gobi which no doubt helped to explain why such a city
had not previously been located. We were elated to have
found what might well be the place we were actually looking
32

for, but at the same time we were also daunted by the

difficulties that faced us should we attempt to make even a
preliminary investigation of the site.
Well, we had among our little brotherhood the
renowned archaeologist, Professor S, who was a specialist in
the antiquities of Central Asia. It was mainly due to his
enthusiasm that we decided to press ahead with our
expedition to the northern part of the desert. He had some
very curious theories about what we might find, but we
respected the mans experience and deep knowledge of his
subject and therefore accepted what he had to tell us. He led
us to believe that we were on the verge of discovering the
very city where once dwelt those ancient Sages who first
taught mankind the secret knowledge of God.
Our enthusiasm rose to a fever pitch and we
determined that we would expend every last ounce of our
strength and means to find this city. That is all very well, of
course, but there were many practical problems to be
overcome. We sat in consultation for the best part of a week,
discussing in detail what knowledge concerning our proposed
route we could discover among the locals. Then we drew up a
list of tasks that faced us. We quickly saw that these broke
down into three categories. The first were those tasks that had
to do with provisioning the expedition. There would be no
hope of finding either food or water anywhere along our
intended route, so that it would be necessary to arrange
supplies for a period of several months. The second category
were those tasks that arose from consideration of the first
problem, namely the transport of such a large quantity of
33

goods, not alone our sustenance, but also shelter, extra

clothing, and the myriad tools and appliances we would need
in order to constitute a proper scientific expedition. So we
had to consider the best beast of burden for the task and also
the matter of provisioning the animals. Then there was the
third category, which had to do with the problems we would
faced in the course of our long journey through some of the
most inhospitable parts of the world. The main danger facing
us here would be the sand storms that plague the region.
From what we had been told by experienced caravansaries,
we could expect violent storms to whip up quite suddenly at
any time. Most would blow themselves out in a matter of
hours, but others could well last for days. The point here for
us was that, if we remained at the mercy of this climate then
we could not predict how long our journey would take. We
could easily die of exposure in the middle of nowhere.
Therefore, it was necessary to devise some mode of transport
that would allow us to progress at a steady rate, these storms
notwithstanding.
Feliks Feliksovich shows a faint smile peeking out
through the spare brush of his moustache. He seems reluctant
to undertake the next step of their ritual.
Well now, my dear Sofya Vasilevna, what do you
think?
Sofya Vasilevna puts her right hand to her throat, as
though this gesture will in some way ease the fire there. Her
eyes are very sombre, a fact that now perturbs Feliks
Feliksovich. Vladimir Mitrofanovich leans forward as a way
of attracting attention:
34

I think perhaps that Sofya Vasilevna has some

difficulty speaking.
It is Dmitri Pavlovich who responds most strongly. He
gets to his feet grey ash cascading from his lap in a fine
shower and shouts:
Alyoshka!
It seems as though the serf-clad servant materialises in
the compartment before their very eyes.
Will water suffice, my dear?
Sofya Vasilevna nods. The servant is gone at once.
Dmitri Pavlovich pulls back his shoulders and stretches,
adding at least two inches to his height. He says to Feliks
Feliksovich, even as he steps tentatively in the direction of
Sofya Vasilevna:
The facilities are barely adequate, you know. We
should have taken a wider view of what this journey would
entail.
Feliks Feliksovich looks glum. He is nodding
agreement with his friend.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich remarks, bending towards
Sofya Vasilevna, speaking perhaps to divert her while they
waited for the refreshment:
I believe, Sofya Vasilevna, that opera is about fear.
You know, a kind of abiding fear that everyone carries
within.
Sofya Vasilevna looks at Vladimir Mitrofanovich as
though he has just sprouted a second head, but Feliks
Feliksovich is nodding more energetically now. He says:
35

That is most interesting, you know, Vladimir

Mitrofanovich. And what, can you tell us, do you think is
Ariannas fear? I mean, I assume here that you have arrived
at some original interpretation.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich is suddenly extremely excited.
Oh yes, Feliks Feliksovich, I have given a lot of
thought to this particular opera, you know. I mean, there is
Arianna in tears after Teseo abandons her, yes? But if you
think about, there is also the prospect of the arrival of the
god
Whatever Vladimir Mitrofanovich might have added at
this point is cut off abruptly when Dmitri Pavlovich greets
the return of the servant with:
Where did you go for the water, you scoundrel?
The servant stammers something that nobody catches.
He places a tall wine carafe on the little table by Sofya
Vasilevnas elbow and then arranges four large glasses in a
row in front of it.
Dmitri Pavlovich is best placed to do the honours for
Sofya Vasilevna. She drinks the water slowly: it burns its
way down. It is surprising that steam is not issuing from her
nostrils, her ears. When she has drained the glass, the Grand
Duke is ready to refill it for her, beaming encouragement all
the while. Now Feliks Feliksovich approaches the table,
shaking himself awhile to loosen out his crumpled clothing.
The Grand Duke is thrilled by his direct contact with Sofya
Vasilevna, for he starts eulogizing the virtue of pure water, its
myriad benefits. It is a vague rambling monologue, which no
one even Dmitri Pavlovich himself listens to. She is
36

halfway through the second glass and Sofya Vasilevna is now

beginning to feel bloated, as though this second batch of
water has nowhere to go inside her. Feliks Feliksovich quaffs
his share of the water no better word for the dainty way he
drains the glass in a succession of rapid sips. The drawback,
of course, is that he also ingests a fair amount of air. The
Prince burps loudly, which silences Dmitri Pavlovich, as
though there is some embarrassing relation between his own
outpouring of words and Feliks Feliksovichs of air.
Vladimir Mitrofanovich fills a glass with water and
offers it to the Grand Duke. This is done in an automatic way,
so neither Vladimir Mitrofanovich nor Dmitri Pavlovich
needs to judge what has been done: is Vladimir
Mitrofanovich naturally obsequious or is he giving the Grand
Duke something other than talking to do?
Feliks Feliksovich has expelled all the air from his
stomach. He takes the partially emptied glass from Sofya
Vasilevna and places it on the table. He then offers her his
handkerchief which he has been using to cover his mouth
out of common politeness saying as he does:
I myself have often wondered, Sofya Vasilevna, why
Arianna laments Teseos departure when the god is expected.
How would you feel, my dear, in that case?
Sofya Vasilevna is still concerned about the mass of
water that fills her stomach: what is it going to do, be
absorbed into her body as into a spring soil? Or will it surge
up again like a mineral springs geyser? However, Vladimir
Mitrofanovich is not doing anything else, so he answers,
pertly enough:
37

Oh now, Excellency, but does Arianna know of the

impending visit? Surely she knows only of Teseos
abandonment of her?
Vladimir Mitrofanovich takes the fourth glass,
discovers that the carafe is empty, so he takes the half full
glass that Sofya Vasilevna has left and drains it in one gulp.
Feliks Feliksovich watches this happening, an expression
working across his face, part a kind of livid curiosity as
though the poor nobleman is either very stupid or very bright
and part a revelation of a disagreeable malice as though a
bully lurked in the apparently debonair prince, awaiting only
the temptation to display itself.
Sofya Vasilevna stands up, convinced that she is about
to become a fountain. There are now three adults standing in
a very limited space beside the little table. The Prince and the
Grand Duke are inconveniently situated if Sofya Vasilevna
should have reason to fly the room in haste. She presses the
Princes handkerchief to her mouth. Dmitri Pavlovich reacts
in alarm, thinking that perhaps something has upset Sofya
Vasilevna. He steps forward, thus further confining her in the
corner. Sofya Vasilevna should speak rationally at this point
to explain her situation but she is convinced that if she
opens her mouth then the worst will happen.
It is the Prince who resolves this impasse. He has
resisted the desire to lean over the still seated Vladimir
Mitrofanovich and so by a reaction he steps away, raising a
hand in an idle gesture and turning as though drawn by a
magnetic force to his friend, the Grand Duke. Yet these
movements do not exhaust whatever it is that moves in him
38

(which he himself cannot identify), so he finds himself

suddenly saying, rather loudly though obviously speaking
directly to Dmitri Pavlovich:
Perhaps we should invite Grigory Efimovich to join us
for the storytelling?
The Grand Duke is very surprised at this suggestion.
He too steps back now and turns to look towards the
rightmost entrance to the compartment, as though the mere
enunciation of the name should make the person referred to
appear in their midst. He temporises, no doubt also signalling
his doubts about this notion:
Do you really think so, Feliks Feliksovich? You
believe he would be interested in our little assembly here?
Sofya Vasilevna draws a deep breath. The water is
subsiding in her stomach. She sits down again and places the
Princes handkerchief on the table at her elbow. How
peaceful she suddenly feels, as though some crisis has been
surmounted.
It is now Vladimir Mitrofanovichs turn to stand up, a
pointless exercise no doubt nothing requires him to stand
but it is obvious that some energy drives him too. His quick
retort to the Prince has emboldened him. He says:
And is there room, gentlemen?
Both the Grand Duke and the Prince look at him, both
serious, as though a weighty consideration has been aired.
Dmitri Pavlovich nods slowly: There is that, too, you know.
Most of the water Sofya Vasilevna has consumed has
now found its natural reservoir in her body and has filled that
receptacle. She stands up, utters an apology for her sudden
39

departure which no one heeds, the men being in conference

and hurries out through the leftmost entrance, through the
comfort chamber and into the water closet.
Meanwhile, Feliks Feliksovich has the very idea. He is
unaware that he has been tracking Sofya Vasilevnas
movements and that the solution to their problem has been
suggested to him by those movements.
We would have sufficient room next door, my friends,
yes?
Feliks Feliksovich sees himself occupying the chair
analogous to the one he has occupied here, with the Grand
Duke seated across from him, and everyone else
accommodated three in a row on the ottoman. He smiles
broadly.
I think that would do very nicely.
He lifts the screening curtain and takes his place by the
table. The little cabinet is out of line with the wall, so he
straightens it up pretty exactly. Feliks Feliksovich already
looks as though he has sat there for several hours. Dmitri
Pavlovich pushes through, air of reluctance still evident, and
sits down across from his friend. For his part, Vladimir
Mitrofanovich peeks his head round the curtain first, sniffing
the air. He has a somewhat peaky face good-looking when
formal, though so that he gives the impression of an ascetic
monk about to enter a brothel.
Oh do come on through, my dear Vladimir
Mitrofanovich. Theres nothing in here that will bite you.
The Grand Duke must give vent to his anxiety about
what they are doing, but it certainly helps get Vladimir
40

Mitrofanovich into the chamber. Now he stops to survey the

couch and its gaudy cushions, its surface a bit shiny in places.
Feliks Feliksovich places two fingers on his lips and
says:
We will form a party for dinner, my good Dmitri, and
I think it best if we are all acquainted beforehand. He tilts his
head in the Grand Dukes direction, a mildly accusing pose
on his face: Nothing more than that, I assure you.
Dmitri Pavlovich hrumphs as he listens, then says,
head coming up as though broaching a surface of water: It is
not as though this is necessary, Feliks Feliksovich. We are
concerned only
Sofya Vasilevna has entered the chamber from the
water closet. She is very surprised to see the men disposed
about the room.
Ah, my dear Sofya Vasilevna. This is Feliks
Feliksovich, jumping to his feet and bowing in a brisk
habituated way. We thought we would anticipate the arrival
of our special guest. Sweeps his arm out to indicate the
dimly lit confined space about them. So we would be at our
ease when he comes to join us, you see.
It is evident to Sofya Vasilevna that she will be
expected to share the couch with Vladimir Mitrofanovich and
the special guest. She makes a very full moue, bringing her
hands up to her mouth too.
Feliks Feliksovich turns to Dmitri Pavlovich for
support, continuing yet to Sofya Vasilevna: Oh please do
accommodate us, dear lady. It should be apparent that our
little hall of mirrors will not suit.
41

Perhaps Sofya Vasilevna should put her foot down, but

what she actually does is step around Feliks Feliksovich and
slip into the chair he has just vacated. She smiles at Dmitri
Pavlovich, just across the table from her. Then she opens the
little cabinet and takes out the box of nougat. Everyone will
have nougat. It is chewy, sticky, very satisfying.
Feliks Feliksovich is by now seated on the couch
beside Vladimir Mitrofanovich. They are both perched
uncomfortably. Vladimir Mitrofanovich is endeavouring not
to touch its surface with his hands, while Feliks Feliksovich
is having a covert tussle with an awkward cushion that is
jutting into his back in a most provocative way.
It is Dmitri Pavlovich who resumes the proceedings,
much more at ease now, a special twinkle for the woman near
him when opportune:
Perhaps now we can continue with this tale, Feliks
Feliksovich? Would you care to choose a subject for us,
Sofya Vasilevna, and let our friend exercise his undoubted
storytelling talent for us?
It is evident that Sofya Vasilevna is chewing nougat,
and that she is making no attempt to speak while she does so.
The Grand Duke watches her for a moment, then suggests:
I would say that Sofya Vasilevna might be happier
with the tale about the precautions taken against the storms,
Feliks Feliksovich. The other tales are rather mundane, dont
you think, and not very scientific.
A voice cries out from the other compartment, like the
cry of a child discovering itself lost: Excellency, oh
Excellency.
42

In here, you numbskull. The little servant in the serf

costume sneaks around the curtain screen, a look of genuine
relief on his face. The Grand Duke is scathing: Where else
did you think we would be?
The servant bows, and bows again.
Well, where is Grigory Efimovich? Did you convey
my message to him?
Oh yes, Excellency, I went to him straight. But His
Holiness told me to tell you that he is at prayer.
Feliks Feliksovich sniggers, deflecting his peevishness
in that way. Dmitri Pavlovich guffaws loudly and thrusts his
right arm out to full stretch, fist closed tightly, shouting:
At prayer, ha!
Feliks Feliksovich thrusts his arm out in imitation of
the Grand Duke, his snigger becoming a disquieting titter.
There is a low pinging sound, that no one except Sofya
Vasilevna seems to notice.
The servant is still bowing, bobbing his head up and
down.
But, Excellency, he did say that he would be along
directly. He said, as best I can remember, Tell His
Excellency to carry on with the festivities. I will join him once
I have completed my devotions. That is what he said to me,
Excellency.
Both the Grand Duke and the Prince are sharing the
same smirk, part the easy cynicism of those willing to be
cynical in certain circumstances, but part also the uneasy
distaste of those who do not wish to experience revulsion of
any kind.
43

Both Sofya Vasilevna and Vladimir Mitrofanovich are

disturbed by the sudden change of tone in the room. The
latter is especially exercised by the negative elements both
the cheap cynicism and the more genuine aversion but he
waits until the servant has retreated to his quarters before
raising his hands, left hand to the Prince by his side and right
hand to the Grand Duke just across the chamber from him. It
is a priestly gesture, as though Vladimir Mitrofanovich might
pronounce a blessing to forestall worse behaviour.
Sofya Vasilevna experiences a sudden deep anxiety, a
sense that the ground has shifted under her feet, that firm
earth has become a mire. It evinces itself as a sharp pressure
in her bladder, a feeling that a veritable torrent is ready to
burst forth from her. This makes no sense, of course; she has
just relieved herself.
Feliks Feliksovichs countenance has changed
completely. All the dark quality has gone and he looks his
more usual jocular self. He is staring at Vladimir
Mitrofanovichs left hand raised towards him. He says,
conversationally:
I do remember one thing our friend the Doctor said.
He glances across at the Grand Duke who still looks
thunderous then into Vladimir Mitrofanovichs bland godfearing face: He remarked that Teseo weeps. Yes, Teseo
weeps.
Dmitri Pavlovich is taken aback: Never. What on
earth would the good Monteverdi make of that?
Vladimir Mitrofanovich drops his hands: Yes, he told
me that, too. Teseo sits in the stern of the boat that takes him
44

from the island and looks back at Arianna, weeping all the
while. And weeping profusely, apparently.
Dmitri Pavlovich shakes his head in wonder. Well,
isnt that the strangest thing?
Sofya Vasilevna cannot control the impulse in her
bladder. It is as though the liquid there boils, as in a pot. She
jumps up and heads again for the water closet.
At her back, Feliks Feliksovich is saying: And he does
not row the boat either, you know. The Doctor said it is
drawn away from the island.
In the water closet, Sofya Vasilevna discovers that
there is another door opposite the one she has just come
through, one she had not noticed before. It is open. A man
stands in the doorway, beckoning her to follow. She does so
without a second thought. This other chamber is dimly lit and
very small, only space really for one armchair. The man
indicates that she should sit.
Sofya Vasilevna sits in the chair.
The man leans over and whispers:
Close your eyes. There will be a moment of
blankness. Do not be afraid.
Sofya Vasilevna has time only to think: Afraid of
what?

45

Oh the chill!
It is like iron; implacable like iron. It is everywhere,
right down into the deep.
A moan, then fluid flows from a tube. The fluid is
warm and sweet. It soothes.
Tears for a loss. The salt burns.
Eyes flicker open on the darkness.
The chill is too much for now.

The first thing she does is check the figures. They are
in red. That explains it. She lifts her left arm towards her eyes
so she can better see them. Two and half million. The change
rate is in orange, at minus three point five.
The loss agents must be at work by now.
She presses the surface on the inside of her wrist,
where the figures are displaying. The new figures are in
black:
15.47:15.03.17.
She presses her wrist again to return to the wealth
clock.
2,568,275 red; -3.52 orange.
It will take time, maybe a lot of time.
She tries to sit up. A voice says: Under acceleration.
Please wait.
She says: I am hungry and thirsty.
The whirr is piercing for the first few seconds, then she
gets used to the sound.
The voice says: Subsistence for two hours.
46

She reaches for the umbilical and eases it into her

mouth. The fluid is thick, warm and sweet.
Then she begins to feel drowsy. The last thing she
thinks is:
Down ten already.
Blue light mode. She checks the figures:
2,498,254 red; -3.47 amber.
The voice says: You may sit up now.
She asks, Where am I?
Europe East Sector. Arriving Atlantic Rim Exchange
Two at eighteen twenty five.
The problem as always is memory. Do I need to know?
Try it: What happened?
The new voice is more obviously machine: Dextra
Bubble exposure on the margin. Risk assessment two seconds
off. Billink Service fifty two percent miscall affecting twenty
two thousand six hundred and fourteen clients. Three hedges
invoked. Loss to date: ten million, three hundred and forty six
thousand. Projected state: equilibrium at fifteen thousand in
one hundred and twenty two days. Market state: up six point
five billion youdees. New Bubble announced: the Whitring
Bubble.
She thinks: Ruined. Then she wonders if she has ever
been ruined before.
She asks: Insurance?
Underwriting plus point oh oh two. Projection out by
two point five seconds.
47

She thinks again: Ruined. She asks:

Advice?
Better prognosticators.
Are they ever good enough?
The machine remains silent.
I dozed off. The figure at her wrist is red. Still red.
Moving to sit up sets off a number of aches. The socket
in the neck is always the worst: heat from the over-stimulated
nerve endings there. The sockets in her navel merely feel
heavy.
Her throat will takes hours to moisten and the lymph
will be mouldy until she can move about.
She is sitting up. Light, she demands. The spectrum
broadens until there is a low yellow white light. The cabin is
small, neutral in every way, grey on grey. There is a vacant
seat facing her, two more to her right, facing each other, both
vacant too. The atmosphere is very heavy and confined, the
result no doubt of the variety of dampers active.
Has she ever travelled like this before?
She asks: Whitring?
Premature selloffs, maximum exposure at early blue
incline, no insurance, no hedging: projection seventy five
thousand at ninety five days.
And?
Projection is hard. Flat base. Re-entry impossible.
In other words, no.
Best option.
48

Definitely broke.
Machine maintenance now. But
Why all the way to Atlantic Rim?
The voice is the other one, the personalised one:
Deceleration begins in one minute.
Her seat begins to recline. The pressure will rise,
then
The swaying of the coach awakens her this time. There
are external sounds, but they are faint: a rattle of metal on
metal. She knows the speed is right down, without knowing
how she knows.
Light.
White light now, quite bright. She must blink furiously
till her eyes adjust.
Arrival in two minutes. You will leave the tsug here.
She glances down at her wrist: 2,456,367 red; -3.3
amber. She reminds herself that she is now broke. She
reminds herself that she will now begin to live off Machine
Maintenance.
Subsistence. Has she ever lived like this before? She
cant remember, of course. Ill know from how I respond.
She knows when they stop. A sudden peacefulness; the
moment like a pivot. A door set between the facing seats
opens with a sigh of its seals as they part. A trolley-like
machine eases into the compartment, fitting the space
available to it almost exactly. It says:
49

Please transfer to this conveyance. It will bring you to

the Reception.
Extreme dizziness when she stands. She will fall,
except that two tentacle arms expand from the machine and
steady her. They support her until she lowers herself onto the
trolley couch. The machine reverses immediately, then
swings around and runs down a ramp.
The building is huge, very long with a slight curve
leftwards, its true width hidden by the bulk of the coach she
is leaving. The beams of flat blue light from the ceiling
illuminate the long black tsug that has brought her here. The
tsug with its string of windowless coaches both repels and
impresses her, both very powerful and too powerful at the
same time. The fact that it exceeds her in some final way fills
her with a momentary dread. There are other machines at
work on the tsug, sturdy constructs that take custom-sized
containers from other wagons up and down the platform on
either side. Not as much noise as the scale of activity might
suggest, mostly impacts of heavily protected surfaces. She
can see no other passengers.
She is now taken through a short corridor into a more
humanly proportioned room. There are even some
comfortable looking chairs over beside a long table and a
number of images on the walls. The light is human too, a
pearly white with a hint of yellow.
She braces herself, determined this time to stand
without help from the machine. However, the machine does
not slow down here; it continues towards what she knows is
an airlock over on the far side of the room. Transparent
50

screens rise on either side of her from the trolley. She reacts
without thinking, grabbing the edges of both of them to try to
pull them back.
The machine stops moving at once. It explains: We
must go into the open in order to reach the Reception area.
No! She slams her hands against the curved surfaces
of the now-closed canopy. It is not fear, really; she simply
does not like machines, and dislikes it intensely when they
act without her permission.
The machine must open the canopy again. Its basic rule
is that it must not harm or upset humans, no matter what the
circumstances. The Machine must maintain humans, but it is
not obliged to keep them alive against their wishes.
Can I walk there?
You will need protective clothing.
A drawer under her slides open. There is a zip-up suit.
You should don this.
She swings her legs over the side of the trolley and lays
them flat on the ground. One breath, two breath. She pushes
herself slowly upright. Slight swaying, but she knows the
strength is there. It is only when she tries to step away from
the trolley an instinct to cut away from it as soon as
possible that she experiences the true vertigo that afflicts
her. She knows what it is at once: she has spent too long in
reality. Too long being how long she does not know.
The machine has extended a tentacle for her to lean on.
It says: Walk around the machine.
She concentrates less on the act of walking itself the
innate ability will soon assert itself than on making the
51

internal mental adjustments that are needed. She speaks to

herself:
Return consciousness to the body.
At once she feels herself in her body. Not entirely
pleasant. The vertigo eases rapidly, as would be expected, but
there is now awareness of the various discomforts that assail
her. Stiffness in the joints, in her hips especially, the foul
taste of the lymph waste and its attendant queasy lassitude,
and most of all the throbbing ache in her head that is the
result of the initial attempts to absorb the stimuli pouring into
her now from the outside world. The latter produces a feeling
akin to a despair that flits in and out of her mood: as though
she is trying desperately to control a profound
disappointment.
When she is finally able to walk unaided, the machine
reminds her of the need for clothing. The garment is not
heavy, but the fabric tends to cling to her cool-damp skin, so
that she must return and sit on the edge of the trolley while
she works her way into it. She doesnt like the cowl, but the
machine says:
You should cover your head.
She pulls the cowl up, finds that a clear face mask
swings from it. Again, this is too much.
You should cover your face.
She really hates doing this, fighting a lurking
claustrophobia that has other causes like spending too long
confined in darkened rooms.

52

There is a breathing apparatus, not intrusive, and

already her skin is warming. She wont admit it, even to
herself, but she is mollified.
Now, to walk. She walks towards the airlock, one step,
two step, and then a third. A slight dicker then, as though she
momentarily forgets how to do it, but the tentacle arm is at
her elbow, the amount of support provided calculated to a
frighteningly exact degree. More steps, and now it is like
gliding, the low whirr of the trolley just behind to her left, the
tentacle super-steady even when she totters.
Has this ever happened before? It feels as though it
has: the sensation of gliding really of being in movement
is very strong as a memory, like an echo behind what she is
doing just now.
The airlock slides open at her approach, the interior
spacious, well-lit, even a control board of sorts to the right. In
the centre exactly of the lock a slight but firm jiggle of
the tentacle stops her. The time between the closing of the
inner door and the opening of the outer one is very short.
There is no apparent change in air pressure.
The world outside seems to be on fire. She hesitates,
asking: What is it?
The setting of the sun.
She steps through the door, out into the open. Hard to
take in at once. The bigness of the sky, reaching up
everywhere with no apparent geometry. And the land the
ground stretching out to so many different horizons: low
buildings over to her right, then to her left towards a nibbled
far horizon of scrub vegetation. And before her a ruined
53

environment of rubble and patches of dirty slabbed paving

reaching across an uneven land towards lines of low blocky
buildings lit a glaring red by the sun. Beyond them, a line of
low hills is already being lost in the evening shadows.
But there is a roadway she is standing on it running
away on either side of her. She looks a long time at this
roadway: black matt surface, completely level, completely
even. Its like an orientation for her, a way of getting her
breath back.
Then she can ask: Which way?
The trolley machine turns to the right. That way,
towards the low buildings.
She is relieved.
At one point she discovers that she is walking freely;
that is, without the support of the machines tentacle. She
feels stronger then and hurries her pace. But the time comes
when they move beyond the shadow of the long tsug station,
so that she can now look to the west.
Even before registering what she is seeing, she asks
herself: Have I ever seen this before? She does not know, and
amid the wonder she is going to experience that realisation
will trouble her.
The sun is still above the horizon, whole, deep
sulphurous red, coruscating with a profound sort of
animation, as though at once utterly masterful and utterly
helpless. She stops and stands in awe before it. The sun, it
dances for her, wavering through the layers of pale green sky,
grainy orange tinges where stray cloud and other
concentrations permit.
54

Yet there is no echo in her, no memory of previous

events like this. She asks:
Is this usual?
Silence. She knows the machine is absent. Then:
The sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening.
She stares at the machine. The feeling of intense
frustration and anger is not unfamiliar to her. She can only
resume walking towards the low buildings at the end of the
roadway, hitting the side rail of the machine with the heel of
her hand as she passes.
Stupid machine.
After a very slight delay the machine follows her,
saying in a loud enough voice for her to hear:
Sunset is the time at which the Sun disappears below
the horizon in the west. It should not be confused with dusk,
which is the point at which darkness falls, some time after the
beginning of twilight when the Sun itself sets
The colours of the sky throughout the day and at
sunrise and sunset, are explained by the phenomena of both
Rayleigh Scattering and Mie Scattering. The colour of the sky
described by Rayleigh Scattering applies to the hues of blue,
violet and green, not to the reds, oranges, peaches and
purples of sunrise and sunset. Rayleigh Scattering is a
scattering of shorter wavelength light for example blue &
violet by air atoms and molecules, rather than statistical
variations in density of the Earth's atmosphere. The
magnitude or strength of Rayleigh Scattering varies by the
reciprocal of the wavelength raised to the fourth power. The
variations of the reds, purples, oranges and peachy colours
55

of sunrise and sunset arise from Mie Scattering, low angle

scattering of light off dust, soot, smoke and ash particles. Mie
Scattering thus produces the colours of sunset and sunrise
and is recognizable down-wind of and after severe storms,
chemical fires and volcanic eruptions that inject large
quantities of fine particulate matter into the atmosphere.
The sunset is often more brightly coloured than the
sunrise, with the shades of red and orange being more
vibrant. The atmosphere responds in a number of ways to
exposure to the Sun during daylight hours. In particular,
there tends to be more dust in the lower atmosphere at the
end of the day than at the beginning. During the day, the Sun
heats the surface of the Earth, lowering the relative humidity
and increasing wind speed and turbulence, which serves to
lift dust into the air. However, differences between sunrise
and sunset may in some cases depend more on the
geographical particulars of the location from which they are
viewed. For example, on a west-facing coastline, sunset
occurs over water while sunrise occurs over land.
The timing of sunset varies with the time of year and
the latitude of the location from which it is viewed. The
timing can also vary in local time, with the locations precise
longitude. Changes in timing of sunset are generally driven
by the axial tilt of Earth and the planets movement around
its orbit, but some differences exist. For example, in the
Northern Hemisphere, the earliest sunset is not at the winter
solstice but instead it occurs some days earlier. Likewise, the
latest sunset is not at the summer solstice, but occurs some
days later. The same phenomenon exists in the Southern
56

Hemisphere except with the dates swapped. For one week or

so surrounding the two solstices, both sunrise and sunset get
slightly later or earlier each day. Even on the equator,
sunrise and sunset shift several minutes back and forth
through the year, along with solar noon. This effect is plotted
by an analemma.
Due to Earth's axial tilt, the direction of sunset is
always to the northwest from the spring equinox to the
autumn equinox, and to the southwest from the autumn
equinox to the spring equinox.
As sunrise and sunset are calculated from the leading
and trailing edges of the Sun, and not the centre, this slightly
increases the duration of day relative to night. Further,
because the light from the Sun is bent by the atmospheric
refraction, the Sun is still seen after it is below the horizon.
This effect is a daily illusion both morning and evening.
The buildings are squat cubes of some black material,
five of them that she can see, without any apparent openings.
One is taller than the rest. It sits behind the others.
The roadway turns abruptly to the left, to run alongside
these buildings.
She stops and looks back to check for the machine now
that it has fallen silent.
There are three tall actually, very tall structures
directly behind her. They are off in the distance, towards an
horizon but not on it, how far off she cannot judge. She
points:
What are they?
57

Machine cannot see as humans do. Please indicate a

direction by touching the machine appropriately.
She does this, hissing her breath impatiently.
They are the Rim Spires, numbers Three, Four and
Five.
I mean, you idiot, what kind of buildings are they?
They are cities.
Cities?
Yes, cities. Where persons live.
Persons? What do you mean by person?
Persons are people who live in reality.
The sun is reflecting sharply from the cities, the light
flaring up into the sky.
Am I a person?
No.
What am I?
Designation is unclear.
The sky is darkening now over to the right. Night. She
starts. I know something of this process. Why isnt the sunset
familiar?
She turns back to the nearby buildings.
Is this Reception?
No.
Which way then?
You will follow me.
The trolley machine follows the roadway around to the
left. She finds it is moving too slowly, so she gives it a push.
It increases its speed. She pushes it again, and continues to
push it until it is running along quickly enough for her. The
58

pace she has set is demanding, but it will clear her lymph
quickly. Already there is a freshness, the horrible morbid
taste in her throat is receding.
Once beyond the buildings, the roadway divides, one
fork going left, back around towards the tsug station, the
other one heading towards a tall metal gate to the right. The
machine is veering towards the gate, the couch superstructure
swaying as it takes the turn at what must be excessive speed.
The gate opens at their approach. The machine whizzes
through, then swings around left. She follows, a sudden surge
in her spirits as she passes through the gate. She lets out a
cry, a release of pent-up feeling. There is no sense of escape;
nonetheless, she does feel released from some constraint
but without being able to say what it is she is escaping.
The machine reduces its speed abruptly. She can see
that it is bouncing about. The road surface has changed. A
dull grey material, not at all smooth in fact, pitted and
scraped over its entire surface. A very old, debilitated surface,
not intended for machines such as the trolley.
What is it?
The machine stops. Must observe safety limit for
uncertain terrain.
She takes a very deep breath. It feels really good to do
that.
Well, she says in good humour. I will run on ahead.
She does. The machine calls something but she doesnt
hear, doesnt want to hear.
The roadway is much wider than the one within the
station compound. Its edges are marked by obviously
59

artificial slopes that rise to low walls that run along either
side. The walls themselves are badly damaged, parts of them
missing altogether in places; elsewhere they have collapsed
down onto the slopes, large blocks reaching the roadway
itself here and there.
She has settled down to an easy loping run, pumping
her arms vigorously at her sides, observing the changes in her
body. There is too much heat in her lungs an itch to cough
that she instinctively resists as air is forced into the lower
reaches that have been all but inactive for a long time. Her
throat is fine, though: heat here too, but this too will pass
with exercise. The greatest pleasure she finds is in her limbs,
especially her legs, the easy access to strength though she
has no memory of running like this before.
Then she sees that the road ends abruptly just ahead, a
low fence of some black material, a narrow opening in the
centre. She stops at the fence, panting in an urgent faintly
excited way, legs tingling, the solid thump of her heart almost
audible. The light is fading as the sun sets behind her, but
even so the air is vivid for some reason as though her eyes
have some kind of penetrative power.
Behind her, the machine is saying, Medical
restrictions apply. This is for your own protection. It repeats
this, and she realises that the trolley has bumped along in her
wake calling this out for her sake.
She casually raises an arm to it. The machine falls
silent at once. She asks:
What is this?
The machine pauses for an instant, then begins:
60

The Western Littoral sub-brachial access line of the

World Circuit serving the
A voice from somewhere beyond the fence speaks with
a decisive edge:
Oh do shut up!
The machine goes silent, seeming to sag on its fat
wheels.
They rattle on, dont they?
She sees now that a roadway runs on through the
opening in the fence, surface black and smooth just like the
roadways within the tsug station. A woman stands in this
roadway. She is very tall.
She wears no protective clothing. She wears instead a
single long garment in dark blue that reaches to the ground.
Who are you?
You can call me Stella. Thats short for
Estrellapollia. She comes forward slowly, as though care is
needed at this point. Do you know who you are?
No, I dont.
Stella bends slightly, peering at the woman against the
light of the sun. Her face is long and very lean.
At least you know that, dont you?
No protective clothing: she remembers that. She turns
to the machine:
She is not protected. There is annoyance, and
jealousy.
The machine rocks from side to side, as though
expressing agitation. She hears a wheel whirring.
She is not under care.
61

Stella has come out onto the old roadway. She is very
tall. Her skin is dark; her eyes gleam in the sunlight.
What it means is that I am a free human being. She
raps the side rail of the trolley with her knuckles. Isnt that
right, machine?
She utters the word machine with a malicious bite.
You are category six. You are a natal human.
Stella has pulled out a drawer in the near end of the
trolley: Thats right, machine. And dont you forget it.
She is drawing out a lead. Turn around. Im going to
hook you to the machine. That way we can find out who you
are.
She plugs the lead into the socket in the back of her
neck, murmuring: This jack has seen some use, hasnt it?
To the machine she orders: Screen.
The current passing from the machine goes through her
entire body. She stiffens, begins to relax, then remembers that
she is not entering reality. Stella says, Look at this.
The screen juts up from the machine, lettering brilliant
in the growing gloom.
What?
Cant you read?
No.
Then Ill read it for you. You have no name. No
designation. And you are broke.
Yes. I know that. She checks her wrist: 2,412,569
red; -3.21 amber.
Do you? Good. That is to explain why you are here.
62

Stella pulls the lead out and lets it reel back into the
machine.
What else does the screen say?
You caught that? Well, its awkward to explain.
Stella is pulling at her face mask, peeling it away from the
cowl. Put it this way: most of your record seems to be
hidden.
She takes a breath. She coughs violently. The machine
says: Medical restrictions apply. This is for your own
protection.
Stella says without turning her head, Be quiet. I told
you that already, didnt I?
The air feels as though it is a kind of acid. Already she
can feel her body beginning to react.
Stella lays her palm flat on her brow: No, dont panic.
Youll get used to it in a moment. She smiles. This is what
real air is like. And its a long time since you breathed real
air, isnt it?
Her body is about to burst open, like fire is circulating
instead of blood, and yet she is realising that she has never
seen anyone actually smile before. She says, really a
stammer, part the shock her whole being is undergoing, part
an unusual movement in her:
You are lovely.
Stella smiles again, her whole face taking part, many
creases around her eyes and mouth.
As I say, real oxygen.
She is now drawing the cowl back. She ruffles through
her stubby hair.
63

Let it grow, do you hear me? It will make a

statement.
Stella turns in order to show her own hair. Tied at her
nape, it hangs in a thick hank down to her waist.
See. It says you are a woman. No one will care, of
course, but you should do it anyway.
She gives one of her full smiles again. It is delightful to
see.
So, one more thing before I go. Clothes. This doesnt
matter either, but try to wear something better than that
pointing to the zip-up shes wearing it makes you look like
a clone.
She reaches and touches her shoulder:
A name. You need a name. I suggest Sophie. Sophie.
Its the nearest I can think of to the name of the last person
you were. Its in some ancient language. But Sophie will do
nicely anyway.
Stella turns suddenly and walks away. She shouts back:
Wear red if you can. Deep red. Bye for now.
The machine is still rocking on its wheels. It says:
We must wait for a replacement. This machine cannot
move.
She looks at the machine and suddenly feels an
immense patience. She doesnt know why she feels this, but
she likes the feeling. Its as though something has stopped, so
that she can look around and actually begin to see.
Why cant you move?
Front right wheel is stuck in a rut or other
obstruction.
64

Are you still trying to free it?

Yes. Instructions are to continue to do so.
She throws her weight against the end of the trolley
nearest her. The machine bounces once, then surges away
from her.
Are you free now?
Yes.
Can we go on then?
First you should close the face mask. That is advised
for your welfare.
No, I wont. The air is still very what word?
potent. Stella seemed pretty healthy.
Category six natals are fully adapted to their
environment. Category three artificials may lack fundamental
immunities. Do you wish to be tested?
She stares at the machine. She is not puzzled, rather it
is that she is only beginning to grasp at something like the
range of what is becoming available to her.
No. Im still alive. That will do for now.
Very well. We should continue to Reception. You are
not equipped for night vision.
The machine rolls out onto the smooth surface of the
newer roadway. The roadway is fenced. She can see over it.
They are on a bridge. The area below is largely in deep
shadow now, but she catches the glint of rails.
Is this the trackway for the tsug?
Yes. The Western Littoral throughway. If we wait for
two minutes you will witness the passage of a tsug.
Like the one I was on?
65

No. The World Circuit enters the Tunnels further

north of here. This tsug is the daily from Kano and Toledo.
There is no warning of the approach of the tsug. One
moment silence and darkness, then a fierce rush of air and a
tremendous booming sound. Still no lights, but the residual
sunlight glints on the leading edges of the coaches as they
flash by below.
Then it is gone.
How fast was that?
Not too fast. It is slowing as it enters the curve that
will take it into the Number Two Tunnel. The machine
pauses. No. Correction: it will enter the Number Three
Tunnel.
How fast can they go?
Four thousand kilometres per hour above ground.
Only three thousand kilometres per hour in the tunnels.
She continues to stare into the darkness below, though
there is nothing at all to be seen now.
Humans once came in their hundreds to witness the
passage of a tsug, the machine tells her. Some would spend
all their time here.
A low whirr of the wheels as the machine moves away.
People liked the tsugs. They cheered as they passed. They
were happy.
She follows the machine, though she does move off the
bridge with some reluctance. She offers:
Thats because they were going somewhere else. The
tsugs, that is.
66

The dusk is very deep. She can barely see the machine
out in front of her.
Did the people want to go somewhere else?
Yes.
The machine stops moving. As she catches up to it, the
machine gives one of its jerks and asks:
People are not happy here?
She touches the nearest rail on the trolley. She is
uncomfortable with the encroaching night.
People are not happy anywhere.
The machine jerks again. She thinks something is
interfering with it. She expands:
If they got on a tsug here and went somewhere else,
they would get on another tsug there and go somewhere else
again.
Data for consideration, the machine says, voicing it
like it was talking to itself or to some other machine.
Query.
The machine grinds on dirt and pebbles as it rotates on
its wheels in order to face her: Is wellbeing the equivalent of
happiness?
No.
Is subsistence the predeterminant of happiness.
I dont know. I dont know what subsistence is.
Do you know what happiness is?
Not being unhappy.
Are you happy?
No.
Are you unhappy?
67

I dont know.
How is that possible? You imply that humans must be
in one or other of those states: happy or unhappy.
I dont know because I dont want to know.
Why not?
Im afraid to ask.
Silence. She assumes the machine is conferring with
another machine. She waits a little while, then asks in order
to ease a pressure growing in her:
Can we get in out of the dark?
Immediately, a light shines out from the trolley,
illuminating the ground all around her. The machine gets
under way again. I will travel as fast as it is permitted, given
the road surface. The roadway is the ancient pitted surface
again. She keeps close to the machine, assuming that it is
following the smoothest path it can find.
There is an instruction to ask you the following
question: If the machine cannot make humans happy through
subsistence, then what can make the humans happy?
She finds that she holds onto the trolley rail while she
reflects on this question.
Happiness is not a real state. It is a judgement.
She is extremely surprised by her answer. The machine
is silent for a longish while, trundling along a weaving path
among the ruts and potholes, with her in tow.
Is unhappiness a judgement also?
No. Unhappiness is a real state.
This seems to exhaust the machines curiosity. She has
continued to hold onto the trolley rail, watching the lit ground
68

at her feet. The darkness presses in on her despite this. She

says:
There are no lights anywhere?
There are the stars. A partial moon will rise later.
No. There is no human light. Artificial light.
None is needed.
But how do people find their way about at night?
People stay in actuality.
The surface of the roadway has improved, so the
trolley can now move more quickly. She must run to keep up.
For a moment she feels fatigue and is on the point of asking
the machine to slow down. Then she flushes hot throughout
her whole body and feels a fiery intensity in her limbs. It is
not strength as she understands it it is more like a new
motivation, a capacity that seems part availability and part a
simple openness.
She increases her pace until she is running alongside
the trolley. The machine adjusts its light for her. Its not clear
to her why she does this. If she could see her way, perhaps
she would simply run till she dropped. Or perhaps she just
wants the company of the machine.
This is Reception, the machine announces. It slows,
then turns right. Wait. Your assignment is being received.
She, of course, can see nothing, though she senses the
presence of buildings in how the machines voices echoes
here and there around them.
Your assignment has been received. It is this way.
The machine goes forward with a start, turns left, then right,
then runs on. The surface has changed again. A lot of debris,
69

dust, pebbles, even fist-sized lumps. The machine bounces a

lot on its squat wheels. Now it turns again to the right, and
after running for a little while turns left, then left again. There
are so many twists and turns that she must take hold of the
trolley rail again.
It stops and rotates its light until it rests on a low black
structure, a faceless cube that reflects little of the machines
light.
This is your domicile. For the record, serial four five
eight dash bee seven, sector two east, Atlantic Rim
Community Phoenix. Thank you for your cooperation.
The machine turns about abruptly, its wheels skidding
on the roadway. It switches the light off.
Hey, wait, she cries out. The block building has
disappeared into sudden darkness. How do I get in?
The machine keeps moving away: Instruct the
domicile.
The scraping and scratching of the machines progress
away from her fades very quickly, muffled by intervening
buildings. Then there is utter silence.
She will panic. She will scream in utter terror. She will
throw herself down on the ground and shrink as small as she
can. She will cease to exist.
She finds she can make out shapes in the dark. It is by
starlight that she can begin to see. She looks up.
She is convinced that if she wanted to, she could touch
the stars, perhaps take one or two of the brightest down out of
the sky for her personal comfort.
She says: Open a door for me.
70

A section of the wall in front of her slides back. The

area inside is bathed in low blue light.
She thinks: I can go inside now.
I am here.
Once inside, the door shuts behind her. She can feel the
air changing and feel something inside her ease, like a fire
going out. Now a second door slides open before her. The
inner chamber is also lit by low blue light.
More light.
White light reveals a single empty chamber that is
taking up most of the volume of the building.
She walks into the centre of the chamber.
Inventory. She doesnt know where the word comes
from, but it has the desired effect.
Welcome to your domicile. The facility is fully
automated and self-maintaining. To the left of the entrance
there is the hygiene stall. It will open at your approach.
Directly facing the entrance there is the sustenance hatch. It
will activate at your approach. The controls are simple and
clearly illustrated. Leisure provisions are sited to the right of
the entrance. They will activate at your approach. The
controls are simple and clearly illustrated. Items such as
clothing and custom requirements can be obtained at the
Reception. Be happy here.
She is nonplussed. The question: How do I live?
surfaces in her as a kind of stupid reflex. Then it refines itself
to the more pointed question: What do I do next?
She doesnt know what to do next, having no memory
of being in this situation before. So she instructs herself, very
71

careful in doing this, remembering suddenly the feeling of

intense panic she had experienced a short time before outside
in the dark:
Walk in a circle around the chamber.
The first response is that a panel falls out from the wall
immediately before her. The voice very personalised says:
Choose from the menu. Appropriate liquid
refreshment will accompany your choice.
She sees little images of differently coloured packs.
She hovers a finger over one and the voice says: Enhanced
for activity. Fruit.
Testing another results in: Consolidated for leisure.
Alcohol.
The
third
image
draws
this
description:
Comprehensive for recovery. Milk.
She is momentarily timid, feeling she must make a
choice now that the machine has taken the trouble to
explain so much to her but a deep fear of actually eating
drives her away.
As it happens, she turns away to the left, so that the
next event is the opening of the hygiene stall. It is a compact
chamber, lit with a low blue light, a hole in the floor in the far
left corner and a set of nozzles suspended from the ceiling.
She steps into the stall, looking for controls. The voice says:
You should undress first.
Now this is an instruction she obeys without thought, if
only because she is disposed in any case to take the zip-up
suit off. She steps into the stall again. The door closes behind
her. The stream of water is gentle at first, the nozzles
72

directing the spray up and down her body and from side to
side. The temperature of the water varies. The first result of
this ministration is that both her bladder and bowel move.
She crouches over the hole and evacuates in a series of
rhythmic muscular spasms. The nozzles continues to spray
her with tepid water, favouring now the nape of her neck and
shoulders. Once she straightens from her excretions, she find
the air sweetly scented. The machine asks:
Do you wish depilation?
She is emphatic: No! Never!
The water becomes warmer and it foams on her skin.
This lasts a short while, when hot water begins to douse her
from head to foot in a circular motion down her body. Then
the water flow ceases abruptly, and warm air blows onto her
from all angles, drying her very quickly.
The door of the stall slides open.
She stands in the middle of the main room and thinks:
That is called bathing.
Her mouth moves in a certain way, pulling at the flesh
of her face. Even her eyes are affected, narrowing, suddenly
sensitive to the light.
She realises that she is smiling. It signifies a buoyancy
deep within her.
I am very pleased.
Now she is drawn down the chamber towards the right.
There is a whirring sound. A section of the floor draws back
and a couch rises into the room. The voice says: The recliner
is multifunctional. See the details on the left side of the
appliance. For details of the leisure facilities, see the panel
73

on the right side of the appliance. These controls are clearly

illustrated and easy to use.
She climbs onto the couch. It shifts in a complex way
as she stretches out on it. The voice says: You can instruct
the recliner to provide the following attitudes: sitting,
viewing, resting, sleeping.
She says: Sleep.
She doesnt know quite what sleep is, but she knows
that she desires it more than anything else at the moment.
What seems like a cocoon of warm air comes to
surround her. The light in the chamber dims slowly until only
a faint blue glow remains.
Her last thought is: Have I ever slept before?

74

There are fresh rush mats laid around the stone-flagged

floor. Each flag has the emblem of the Cross and the Dove
inscribed upon it, the inlay painted in deep blue.
Are the mats clean? The Abbess turns to the young
novice at her side so young that her menarche is only now
pending, evidenced in the blotching of what had been her
purely ivory skin and asks,
Are those mats new, as I ordered?
The novice bows out of habit before replying, though
her eyes remain unwaveringly glued to the slitted vent in the
wall:
Yes, Mother. Sister Angela herself bought them from
the Bastarts, over by the river crossing. She bows again,
shifting her eyes so she can glance at the Abbess. She
continues, sensing the disquieting irritation that moves in the
Abbess and wanting to offer consolation to the person she
now regards as her actual mother: They weave the finest
mats in France.
The Abbess glances in turn at the novice, knowing her
mood is being addressed and caught between gratitude for the
childs consideration and anger at the novices impertinence.
Yes, yes. I know that, Clothilde. But they are so dark.
Please, Mother, but it is a wet and cold spring. The
novice suddenly warms to the familiarity of her subject. As a
peasant girl, she had grown up immersed in the intricacies of
the relationship between the Normandy weather and the
processes of nature. She actually wants to touch the Abbess
totally forbidden, of course say to rest her fingers on her
wrist, even to touch the palm of her hand to her arm. She
75

shivers at the prospect of encountering the warm flesh of the

older woman. But all she does is say further: The rushes grip
life strongly when growth is slow, Mother, and are reluctant
to surrender it when cut. You see that in how the green
remains in them.
The Abbess is nodding. She had intended quieting the
talkative girl even sending her away but the enthusiasm of
the childs chatter was profoundly welcome, though of course
this could never be admitted.
If the Abbess renowned both for her virtue and
wisdom suffered a vice it was that of not repaying with an
equal love the love she received in abundance from those she
ruled. Such was the price of authority, which could only be
fostered through denial. She did not hide this failing from
herself or from God: however, she sought to make amends
for this failing by adding as best she could to the moral
formation of those in her care.
And the mirror, child? Has that been cleaned
thoroughly?
The novice straightens up, instantly proud of herself:
Oh yes, Mother. I did that myself.
Very good. Very good. The Abbess looks the novice
in the eyes, taking in again the uncertain texture of the childs
once lovely skin. You are a good girl, Clothilde. You will
become a true Sister in Christ.
The light that comes into the childs eyes is such that
the Abbess cannot resist touching the novices brow with the
lightest caress of her fingertips. And the child cannot restrain
76

herself either: she reaches and briefly presses her own fingers
against those of her Mother Superior.
Now go, child. Your work is done here. And wait,
she places a restraining hand on the childs shoulder you
should go to the dairy and tell Sister Veronica to give you a
cup of fresh cows milk. You need the sustenance now that
you are about to become a maiden. God bless you.
She watches the girl run off back towards the convent
proper. The smock she wears is really too small for her the
child is sprouting up, her thin ankles evident caught too
tightly now at her bosom. There is a stab of regret. The
Abbess shrugs at its unreality: the processes of life are
unremitting, children grow up, become beasts and suffer. Any
attempt to control this power of life must also be unremitting,
must also entail much suffering.
Yet the child is for the moment still innocent of that
life. Obedient, pleasing, possessing an inborn grace despite
her lowly origins and rude upbringing.
The Abbess does finally shrug off the regret. She turns
back to the slit in the wall. A steely quality enters her now.
Her obsession which surely amounts to a madness
returns.
Is the room clean? Yes, the room is clean. The three fat
candles in the holder over by the mirror give sufficient light.
They have done so before and will do so this time again. The
mirror the Abbess cannot see: it is hidden to the right. This is
as it should be. The Abbess has not a good reason for this
requirement; only her obsession justifies it.
77

She thinks: They ask if I can understand his answers

(being a woman, that is). I answer: If he understands my
questions, then I will understand his answers. This is not her
madness: this is true. It is so true that she would scream it out
to everyone if it would serve, which, of course, it would
not.
I ask questions to test you, beloved. Even you admit
that your knowledge your proud logic and reasoning is
just so much piffle that serves merely to pass the time. But I
cannot tell you that I merely test you, my darling. Then I
would be exposed in my madness: I do not know the answers
to my questions until you have answered them correctly.
There. That is said. Again it is said.
I could only explain: read the signs. Truth happens,
dont you see? You act, then cry to God when you suffer for
it. Do you think God knows any better than you what has
happened? He sees you act; he sees you suffer then God
suffers too.
You believe the world is made of words, but it is a
delusion of words.
I say the world is made of actions: the world happens.
Do not ask God to save you from the consequences of your
actions. Examine the consequences: let your actions speak to
you. Permit them to tell you the truth.
The outside door of the chamber beyond the wall it is
hidden over to the left is opened. The rush of cool air
strikes her heated eyes.

78

The Constable is saying to the young man: Mind you

behave yourself here, sonny. This is the preserve of the holy
nuns. They will not put up with any of your nonsense.
The Constable large and important in his black
leather jerkin, his six foot staff, the brass medallion of office
that hangs about his neck points a finger at a precise spot in
the centre of the room: You wait there now, do you hear. No
fidgeting around. Dont touch anything with your greasy
fingers. Do you understand me?
The young man takes the position indicated. He wont
touch anything she can see how he retracts his fingers when
they are called greasy but he will look around.
The Constable looks him over for a moment, to make
sure he has settled down, then he points to the bucket over to
the left, out of sight by the door: And dont make any mess
now. Use that if youre taken short. He gives the young man
a parting clip across the head that sends his heavy hair flying:
And you mind your manners in here. Remember your please
and thank you. Dont forget, Ill hear it if you misbehave, and
be sure youll catch it, my boy.
Finally, the Constable lays his hand on the young
mans shoulder: Youll be alright now, dont worry. Its just
an interview. The nuns wont harm you.
Then he is gone, the door to the outside world closed.
The draught of cold air dies away. Her eyes clear. The
Abbess can see the youth more clearly:
Jacques the shepherd, guarding his uncles flocks on
the common land. Noted for his dancing, his piping, his
fondness for the company of women of all kinds.
79

He is facing the mirror. Of course. He has raised his

right hand to lift the stray hanks of hair away from his face,
lifting them with a practiced movement over his ear and
settling them in a sweep down to his shoulder. The Abbess
cannot see his face clearly, only the curve of his cheek, the
hollow of the eye socket, his thin pushy nose.
She thinks: There are always the questions to ask. At
the moment of crisis, that is. Why were you born? Why do
you have life? Always the same questions to ask them. And
the answers: Oh they cry to God. Each time they cry to God
for the answer.
She thinks: Perhaps it is too much to ask. This youth
preens himself before perhaps the first mirror he has ever
seen. He knows immediately what to do. What does he do?
Answer that question now.
Is there not a glory is his self-delight? Is that an evil?
He is a beast, but he is a human beast. Put a donkey in that
room and it would piss on the floor in its anxiety. Put a man
in the room and he rises towards his own glory. Look at him.
He is garbed in rags, bare-footed, unwashed. His hair hangs
lank; his skin is a dirty brown. But I know his eyes shine. I
know his manhood surges like fire in him. I know his soul is
pure.
Pure?
Yes. He is pure. He is conceited, spoiled by all the
woman who delight in his natural beauty. How else should he
be? A hypocrite? Pretending a modesty while that fire still
burns in him?
80

She knows it is time. Her last thought is fugitive.

Always the last thought:
Do I do right?
I believe so. God help me.
She bends to take up the leather satchel that leans
against the wall at her feet. She springs the latch between the
bricks. The secret door swings outwards, into the room.
Always the pause before she enters. Then she steps forward,
hidden by the open door until she is well advanced into the
room, the mirror immediately to her right.
She glances at the youth as always then turns back
to place the leather satchel on the little table in the corner
between the door and the mirror. That done, she uses the
freed hand to push the door closed, pressing until she hears
the lock catch again.
The youth is staring at her, a frank curiosity on his
face. She is taken aback by this. Previously, the men had
cringed for one reason or another.
Why do you stare, youth?
They say you were a great beauty, Mother.
It is like a shaft through the Abbesss breast. She is
extremely angry at his impertinence; she is deeply moved by
the obvious adoration in his face. But authority must be
maintained.
You will be whipped for your impertinence.
The youth nods, agreeing with her. He turns to leave
the room, expecting the Constable to be waiting outside.
Wait. The Abbess is at her coldest. There is a more
important matter to be attended to here.
81

The youth stops, but does not turn around. She notices
that his shoulders are unusually rounded for someone of his
age. She says, moved by sympathy:
I am an old woman now, youth. I am dedicated to
Christ.
Now he does turn around to face her. His eyes are
brown, very luminous, a melting sadness in them.
That does not cancel the beauty, mother.
The smell of the sheep is strong on him. It comforts
her, almost feeling the warm wool against her skin.
Are you not married?
The youth shakes his head. My intended, Beatrice,
died last summer.
How did that happen?
She cut herself in the dairy.
Does no other maiden favour you?
The youth lowers his head.
Well? Answer me, youth.
The youth remains silent, head bowed, arms limp by
his sides.
She thinks: I cannot do it. I cannot do it today.
How can you hesitate, youth? How can you love
someone you have not known?
Now the youth does look up. She is surprised to see
anger flash in his face.
You love God, Mother.
The Abbess steps forward and slaps him across the
face. How dare you equate the two!
82

She steps back again, and another step back. She is

now at the secret door.
She thinks: I cannot do it to him. I will withdraw. Let
the youth go back to his flocks and to his sorrow.
The youth says, a red stripe across his cheek, the
sadness back in his eyes:
They say you loved too, Mother.
She finds the lever between the blocks, pulls it and
steps away as the door opens.
Go back to your work, youth. Do not pine. Marry and
be content with what life brings you.
She will not look at him again. She goes around the
open door. He says at her retreating form:
No. Beatrice lives in my heart, Mother. I will bide my
time till I join her again.
It is strange how suddenly her resolve returns. She
steps back into the room.
Remove your clothes, youth.
She can see from how his mouth tightens that this is
what he has been expecting. How much more does he know?
she wonders.
Do what I tell you.
His body is white where the clothing had covered it.
He is slim, muscles very little developed. He is as well
endowed as reported.
You are a veritable Pan, youth.
Now the youth does cringe. He says in a moaning
voice:
Jesus and Mary. Oh Jesus and Mary.
83

The Abbess reaches down and raises the skirt of her

habit to expose the white arch of her thighs to him. The
response is practically instantaneous. She walks slowly
towards him, holding her habit well up above her waist.
You see how the beast loves, youth.
He wants to pull back, his hands hovers around his
erecting penis, a look of horror on his face. But the magnetic
force is too great at one point. He finds that he cannot stop
himself from drawing towards the Abbess, his eyes fixed in a
crazed way upon the dark bush in her groin.
Now the Abbess begins to pull back, acting thus to
draw the youth after her. There is a precise spot where she
stops, where the rush mats are, in front of the mirror. Once
she has drawn him to this spot, she drops her habit and draws
the sickle from the satchel, careful not to touch the sharpened
blade.
The youth never sees the sickle. He sees only the
Abbess step towards him and take the stem of his penis in her
hand. He doesnt even know what has happened when he
feels the drain in that part of him. He knows only that the
Abbess has drawn him in against her, body to body, and is
gripping him tightly to her with her arms.
She says in his ear, panting with the exertion:
Look in the mirror. Look in the mirror. Tell me what
you see.
She can feel the weight of his blood beginning to pull
at the habit. This always causes her to shiver, as the warm
blood cools against her skin.
She repeats herself, voice louder:
84

What do you see? What do you see?

Now the youth is aware of what has happened to him.
It is too much. He sags in her arms.
The Abbess steps away from him, shouting:
What do you see in the mirror? Tell me what you see.
The youth screams.

85

She checks the figures at her wrist: 2,252,482 red; 3.09 amber.
The taste in her mouth is not pleasant, mainly stale
though also a sourness too. She says:
Drink.
The sustenance hatch has been activated. Specify
liquid required. The machine is extremely personalised,
almost human, a woman who is calmly in charge.
She looks about her. This is the domicile. That much
she can remember. She sits up on the couch. Have I slept?
Sleep period duration: ten hours fifteen minutes to
nearest minute.
So I have slept. I dont remember anything. Should I?
Should I remember sleeping?
No. Consciousness is in abeyance during sleep
period.
I should stand. See if I can do that.
She swings her feet out and down to the floor. She
stands with no trouble. Good. I must have been active before
I slept. She looks around, sees the lighted hatch. She says as
she walks in that direction:
Water.
She sees the beaker drop from a recess, hears the tinkle
of the water pouring into it.
Should I eat?
It is recommended.
She takes the beaker and drinks. The water is
refreshing, cool and sweet.
Recommend a meal.
86

Comprehensive. There is no record of you ever having

eaten.
Comprehensive it is.
She looks around the chamber. Four walls she can see
in the dim blue light, the couch over there to her left, the
hatch behind her. Should there be more?
Inventory. This is a word I know.
Welcome to your domicile. The facility is fully
automated and self-maintaining. To the left of the entrance
there is the hygiene stall. It will open at your approach.
Directly facing the entrance there is the sustenance hatch. It
will activate at your approach. The controls are simple and
clearly illustrated. Leisure provisions are sited to the right of
the entrance. They will activate at your approach. The
controls are simple and clearly illustrated. Items such as
clothing and custom requirements can be obtained at the
Reception. Be happy here.
A soft chime sounds behind her. A tray sits in the
hatch, bearing two bowls and another beaker. She takes it to
the couch. The couch forms itself into a seat as she
approaches, a small table rising on the left that she can swing
over in front for the tray.
Eating should have been a problem, but she finds she
knows exactly what to do. She uses a spoon to consume the
contents of the nearest bowl a warm jelly-like concoction,
sweet and light. She knows a fork is appropriate for eating
the contents of the second bowl, a flaky, crunchy food, salt
evident though sweetness as well. The liquid in the beaker
she knows is milk, white and fatty, extremely satisfying.
87

And digesting the food she has eaten causes no

problem either. In fact she feels wonderfully well after the
meal, her senses more alert, a kind of expectation rising in
her limbs. She feels that she could do something, yet she feels
also an indifference to this impulse.
There is an instruction to ask you the following
question. The voice is harsh, metallic. If acknowledging the
state of happiness involves a judgement, does not the
corollary follow, that acknowledging a state of unhappiness
also involves a judgement?
She answers sharply, and with no hesitation: No, of
course not.
Silence for a while. She allows the lassitude reclaim
her, returning to the memory of the meal she has just eaten.
The machine does not understand. It is known that the
machine is not privy to the human sensibilia and that the only
knowledge it can have of human inner states is through
imagery and linguistic tropes that are often untrustworthy.
This voice is more measured, with a slight fuzziness that
suggests it is being relayed over a great distance. However,
in matters of logical analysis, the machine will claim to be at
least the equal of the human. Therefore, your reply to the
previous question has been judged inadequate. Kindly
reconsider the question and provide a more appropriate
answer. The question was as follows: If acknowledging the
state of happiness involves a judgement, does not the
corollary follow, that acknowledging a state of unhappiness
also involves a judgement?
88

She answers immediately: Happiness is a judgement

made about a past state; unhappiness is a description of a
present state.
The word unhappiness disturbs her. She swings her
feet down to the floor and stands up. The impulse to move
now is very strong.
The categorisation you use does not permit logical
analysis. It is impossible to equate the term judgement with
the term description. There is a pause, during which a faint
hiss issues from the sound source. An answer to the
following question may be of use: Were you ever happy?
The word rings like a bell in her head: happy happy
happy She walks away from the couch-chair, down the
chamber. A hatch opens on her right. A door opens in front of
her. When she walks through this door, it closes at once and
water begins to stream down onto her. She stops and looks
around her. The stall is white walled. There is a hole in a
corner. She turns around and walks back into the main
chamber. A door opens on her right and a chime sounds.
Then the couch rises from the floor. She says:
When I think of happiness I see something that is not
familiar. It changes as soon as I catch a glimpse of it. I dont
know what it changes into. There is like a shadow or a
screen, and whatever it is hides behind it.
She turns at the couch and walks back down the
chamber. A hatch opens on her right. A door opens before
her. She turns and starts back up the chamber. A door opens
on her right and a chime sounds. The couch rises from the
floor.
89

There is a quality involved that I do not know. There

are what seem to be colours, but they are not colours. There
is an object that resembles a bare tree, but it is not a tree. She
shivers. Someone waits there. Someone waits there for me.
She turns at the couch and walks back down the
chamber. A hatch opens on her right. A door opens before
her. She turns and starts back up the chamber. A door opens
on her right and a chime sounds. She says, looking into the
tiny room that is lit with a flat blue light:
I am a bird. I am a beautiful bird. Suddenly she
glimpses part of the happiness: I can fly.
She enters the little cubicle.
The humanised voice says:
You should don protective clothing.
She says shortly: Shut up. She walks to the facing
door. It does not open.
Open
You should don protective clothing first. This is
advised for your welfare.
She shouts, very loudly: OPEN!
The door behind her she hears hiss shut. The door
before her opens.
The light is blinding. She knows that this is sunlight.
The sun shines in the sky to her right. It seems to be trying to
shine into her eyes. There are hills glimmering in the
distance, bare round forms that seem parched.
She breathes. She remembers: oxygen. It burns in her
for a while then it is as though she has warmed up. With her
skin it is different, however. It feels as though it is shrinking
90

rapidly, coming to pull painfully at certain places: in her

groin, at the tips of her breasts, all across her face. It is cold.
It is morning. She knows these things and accepts that
knowledge without comment. The sun will rise higher in the
sky and the air will warm. It will become very warm.
She is satisfied with this line of thought. She takes a
step forward. A lancing pain shoots up her leg. She jumps
back. The ground is littered with bits of stone, grit, even large
rocks. She steps forward again, putting her foot down slowly.
She feels the impress of the rubble on her heel, a jab of pain
from a particularly sharp stone. Can she walk barefoot on this
broken surface? She believes she has no choice: shes not
sure why this must be so.
It takes time to walk even a dozen paces. She moves
forward slowly, studying the ground before her for the least
painful path.
There is the instruction to offer you assistance.
A machine shaped like a chair has drawn up beside her.
She says: My feet.
The Reception will provide you with appropriate
outdoor wear.
She is strongly tempted to sit on the machine and let it
take her to Reception. But she steps away from the machine.
The machine trundles along at her side.
Your route will not take you to Reception.
She feels a dart of anger. She looks around. There are a
number of the black domicile blocks in the area. She
recognises that she is on a roadway: there is a stepped
arrangement on either side that defines the way. The
91

domiciles line this roadway on either side, set a little in from

the kerbing. She looks back the way she has come. More
domiciles line the route on either side, dozens of the blocks
extending away from her until they reach what seems to be
other lines of the low buildings.
A lot of domiciles. She can see more of them behind
the nearby blocks, lines of them extending in many
directions. A very large number of domiciles.
She cannot identify her own domicile. They are all
exactly the same.
Is it giving you trouble?
The figure stands in the entrance of a domicile off to
her left. She knows he is a man, even though he is utterly
bald and is wearing a shapeless garment that covers his body
down to his knees.
She must look troubled, for he steps forward and raises
his arm, shouting:
Fuck off, will you. The machine turns and heads back
down the roadway. To her he says in a tone that suggests he
knows her very well: Hate the way they hang about. Like
they expect something to go wrong. Must think were
dummies. Now he notices she is barefooted. Dont you use
footpads?
I dont have any footwear. Im trying to get to
Reception to get something.
Oh, you wont get to Reception this way. At least I
dont think so. Hold on.
He disappears into the domicile, then reappears with a
pair of footpads. He tosses them over to her.
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Your feet are all bloody. You better come in and clean
up. They say you can get all sorts of infections from this dirt.
The footpads have straps that affix them to her feet.
They make a difference. She follows him into the domicile.
He points to the hygiene stall:
You go in there now. Itll fix you up.
At the door to the stall, the voice tells her to undress.
She pulls the footpads off. The soles of her feet are extremely
tender. The hot water relieves her body. She realises that she
is very cold. Then a small tray appears in the corner to the
right. A violet coloured fluid swirls into it. Even before the
machine tells her, she knows this is to treat her feet. A
momentary sting, then she feels a deep refreshment.
Back in the main chamber, the man says from the
couch where he reclines before a screen that occupies the
whole of the end wall:
Not long here, are you?
She places the footpads over by the exit door, then
stands just to the right of the couch, but turned away from the
brilliant animated screen.
No. I dont think so.
Thought as much. Youve still got your hair. He
points at her head, then he presses his thumb into the centre
of his hand. A second couch rises from the floor beside his.
Sit there if you like.
She is unsure what to do. She is reluctant to sit facing
the screen.
Can I take a drink?
93

This is strictly a subterfuge. But it works. The man

swings off the couch and goes to the sustenance hatch. What
do you want to drink?
Water will do.
Water, the man says to instruct the machine.
A beaker drops down, the water trickles into it. Just
like in her own domicile. She is surprised by this fact, though
she knows very well that she should not be.
The water is cool and sweet.
Where have you come from?
I dont know.
He makes an expression with his mouth, as though a
tooth ached.
Yes. Thats how it is alright. He stares over her head
in a totally blank way for while before continuing. Me?
Been here all my life, I think. At least, dont remember
anywhere else. Now he looks at her: Can you remember
anywhere else?
Tsarist Russia, she says, even though it means
nothing to her.
Never heard of that. Daresay there are plenty of places
like that in the world. See the trains sometimes. Going
everywhere, the machine says. Theres a place up north
where the trains are really fast. Can hear them sometimes at
night. Like a scream.
He leans towards her. You came on a train, didnt
you?
She nods. She knows that a train is a tsug.
Was it fast?
94

I think so. You cant really tell.

He makes that expression with his mouth again. Not
much fun in that, is there?
Now he goes silent again, but this time he looks around
the chamber. His brow is very creased and he is frowning in
such a way that a thick deep furrow forms right across his
brow.
You dont like the actuals, do you?
She is caught out here. Actuals?
He stares at her. He points across towards the screen
with his thumb. Didnt they have actuals where you came
from? Arent they everywhere?
No. This will be a subterfuge too. They called them
something else there. Cant remember what though.
He nods, satisfied with her explanation. He shouts
down the chamber: Kill the screen, will you. His voice has a
strange whine. It is as though the screen is on by mistake, and
that the machine is responsible for this mistake.
She knows he thinks he is being very patient with the
machine.
You can stay here is you like.
There is a domicile assigned to me.
He makes the pained expression again. She thinks now
that he may actually be expressing some kind of pain. He
turns abruptly and goes back down the chamber. The couch
rises from the floor. He throws himself on it and is at once
reclined in a specific way.
Screen.
95

The end wall lights up again. A man dressed in bright

red suiting is saying:
Mars Eight is signalling incipient for over three
minutes.
Another man is recoiling in fear, the back of his hand
pressed against his mouth in order to stifle the scream that is
issuing.
The man on the couch is saying in a voice of rising
intensity, No no no NO! He has stretched an arm towards
the screen, fingers splayed.
She goes down the chamber until the door opens to her
left and the chime sounds. She goes into the airlock. She
waits, then orders:
Open.
Nothing happens.
She goes back into the main chamber. Another man in
red is shouting from over by a brightly lit control panel:
Zulu Three is coming in, sir.
The relief is instantaneous. The man who has been
trying to prevent himself from screaming he has a bright
blue robe draped across his shoulders and an elaborate
headgear now cries out in an unintelligible language. The
look of relief is very evident.
The man on the couch relaxes. He looks back at her
and asks:
You come by train?
She nods.
She came by train too. Saw her walking over by the
bridge. Didnt know where she was. He sits up on the couch
96

and swings about to face her. The volume of the voices on the
screen has dimmed. He is excited after the crisis. People do
that. Travel around on the trains. Tried to do it. Walked into
the station and got into a carriage. The machine said it was
already reserved. Left then. Lost my nerve. She did it. Go to
one place then go to another. She was here a long while.
Maybe a long time.
The expression of pain crosses his mouth again. He
looks at her with an intense expression, his mouth pursing
into an oval.
Maybe you should stay here.
He makes a gesture with his two hands that she does
not understand. Then he pushes himself off the couch and
approaches her.
He raises his gown and says: Look. His penis is
engorging. Do you know this?He gazes at his penis as
though it is separate from himself. All the time like this
when you are near.
She asks: Are you natal?
He looks closely at her. Not possible. This is good.
Make for happiness. He wraps his left hand around the shaft
of his penis, now fully erect. Man to woman is good.
He pushes her back towards the nearest wall. The door
opens and the chime sounds. He forces his leg between hers
and drives them apart. He enters her with no ceremony and
pumps vigorously until he ejaculates. He is breathless when
he speaks:
See. Very good. Maybe you stay now. Do it all the
time. He opens his mouth in a rictus and shouts:
97

Jig-y-jig!
He steps back and lets go of his gown. He looks her up
and down, his expression indicating that he expects her to
celebrate the event with him.
She looks towards the open door beside her. I must go
to Reception.
There is a cry from the screen. The volume rises
sharply. He swings around, startled, a hand going to his
mouth.
Oh no!
He runs back to the couch and swings into position
there. Two tall men in green are facing a man in red. One is
saying:
The Ransome occluder has misfunctioned again. The
heat in the responder is reaching dangerous levels. Your team
must do something. You must do it now.
Even though the man is talking about a serious threat
to the group, he speaks in a steady measured voice. The man
in red makes a gesture with his right hand, then he hurries out
a nearby door. The other man in green says:
You know they will rely on the African Parallel
again? I tell you, Chrimas, we ought to withdraw and study
the logs.
The man called Chrimas raises his hand in order to
calm the other.
The logs have been studied more than once. As you
well know. He steps away from the other man and puts his
arms behind his back. We can only hope they find a way this
time, Marcham.
98

The man says, The Saturn Return was a disaster. You

know that? In 2347. Look, he calls out Veronica spec.
Instantly a very detailed plan appears on the screen, replacing
the now silent men in green. See? Veronica had thirty six
drives. Plan was flexibility and distributed load. By Mars
orbit ten of the drives had collapsed. The problem was not
spotted until Louis Shensi created the bubble engine in 2578.
Look, he calls out again Veronica burst equation three.
Now a very complex mathematical formula, occupying
almost the whole area of the screen, appears.
The man jumps up and runs across to the screen. He
bends to examine a section of the equation down near the
floor. He shakes his head. Wrong set. Need the amended
one. He calls out: Equation three dot one.
Another equation appears on the screen, easily as
complex and long as the previous one. The man kneels on the
floor this time, his nose almost touching the shimmering
screen. His bald scalp gleams. Yes. Here it is. Look at this.
She looks back at the door over to the left the one
leading to the outside then she moves slowly in that
direction.
You sees this minus value. That is a fuel indicator.
This is schema oh four seven seven six one. It represents
the fourth second mark of a standard manoeuvre Veronica
would have made. Like adjusting vector. He looks up. He
must stand in order to see her, because the couch blocks his
view of her over by the door.
She is strapping the footpads to her feet.
99

You should understand this. You must know why they

failed.
She says, standing just outside the sensor range of the
door: I need to go to Reception. I need clothing.
He comes over to her. Dont you understand? There is
no such thing as a negative fuel value. Fuel is consumed. It
cannot be retrieved. He spreads his arms earnestly. It wasnt
until Basila Krutcheva, Shensis great pupil, spent ten years
analysing the problem that they realised that the fuel
calculation within the equation was cyclic.
She asks: Will you open these doors for me?
It cycled in roughly five point two three seconds at
standard thrust. Thats what took so long to work out what
was happening. Most thrusts last only a second or two. With
thirty six engines, that is all that was needed. Anyway, there
is a twelve point six six percent fuel drain in the cycle, which
of course is then replaced. He thumps his chest with a fisted
hand. Why didnt they check the equation more carefully
She walks into sensor range of the door. It opens and
the chime sounds.
Wait. He presses what she sees is a thin ring about
long finger of his right hand. A cabinet opens beside the
sustenance hatch. He goes over and comes back with a neat
bundle.
She wore that. It will fit. Were all the same size.
It is a gown that reaches below her knees. The colour is
dark red with dark green flashes down either side. She draws
it over her head.
100

You have a wealth clock. He is pointing at her left

wrist. She looks:
2,148,666 red; -2.96 amber.
I am broke now.
Is that what happened to you?
She nods. The gown fits quite well. There is an obscure
relief in being clothed. She feels sheltered.
A wealth man came here once. Broke, like you. They
had to kill him. He steps back from her. Are you like that?
Can you live without reality?
I dont remember reality. She is candid.
He points down to the screen where the men in green
are staring at the control board: Thats why you dont like
actuals?
She is evasive here: I dont understand this actual.
He nods, accepting her explanation.
Sure. It was a disaster. Not only because the equation
was wrong. You know that?
She shakes her head. She takes a step back towards the
airlock.
Thats when they discovered we could live in space
for no more than thirty three days. He stares at her, raising
his brows until a series of deep furrows form extending right
up onto his scalp. You know that, dont you.
She says yes even though she didnt.
Its not actually thirty three days. Really about twenty
nine days. It takes about four days to finally die. You know
this, yes?
She nods.
101

He pauses, licking his lips, so she reminds him:

I would like to leave now.
He is genuinely surprised: Why? Youve got what you
wanted.
I have my own domicile.
He steps forward, hands out to touch her: But its
good here. Isnt it good here?
She evades his touch by appearing to bend to rub her
ankle.
I must go now. Open the outer door for me.
No. You cannot go now. Its good now that youre
here. Look, Ill do it again and youll see.
He pulls up his gown. His penis is engorging rapidly.
The inner door at his back closes. Then with hardly a
pause the door behind her opens. Raw air rushes in. She
breathes deeply with tremendous relief even as she turns and
runs out onto the roadway.
It is intensely bright in the sunlight.
Dont you want to know how they died? He is
standing in the doorway, the look of pain right across his face
now. The bright light creates deep shadows across his
furrowed brow and into the hollows of his eyes. He is
rubbing his hands together frantically. Its like they melted.
Back into a soup. Every crystal in their bodies dissolved.
Thats what leaving the Earth did to them.
She walks off in a direction that seems to take her
away from his voice as quickly as possible. But he shouts
after her:
102

Were stuck here! Do you know that? For ever and

ever!
Now she runs, finding that the footpads give her feet
good support on the uneven surface of the roadway. She
breathes deeply, almost used now to how the oxygen burns in
her. In fact, the burning sensation gives her intense pleasure.
Its like something in her expanding, something that is
at once a kind of anticipation and a kind of exhaustion. Like
she is going somewhere on condition that she never comes
back here.
She runs easily down this roadway, domiciles on either
side, every so often turn-offs left and right along which are
rows of more domiciles, many more domiciles. As she
expected, the day has grown warmer, and she finds that the
material of the gown shes wearing now has the ability to
vent the increasing heat of her body. She is running towards
the dry hills in the distance. The sun on her right is low
enough in the sky to flash on her eyes from time to time. It
becomes an irritant, and no doubt in reaction she takes one of
the turn-offs to the left, so that now the sun is at her back.
This roadway runs on ahead of her, turn-offs left and right
here too, but on this horizon this time she sees a group of
very high towers, silver clad and bright in the sunlight.
They are something to run towards. They seem far off,
though perhaps they are not quite so far away. She has no
way of comparing their height, so cannot therefore estimate
their distance away. Nonetheless, she wants to run all the way
to them. She could run forever, just run and run.
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Just as she realises this that she would run forever

the roadway comes to an abrupt end at a wide shallow hole.
The edge of the roadway is a ragged tear, so she knows that
the hole was the result of an act of violence. The hole is
littered pretty completely with degraded rubble, so she knows
that the violence occurred a long time ago.
She looks about. The lines of black domiciles stop
some distance away, quite far from the hole. The roadway
was damaged before the domiciles were built. Yet she can see
low mounds of stone rubble on either side of the roadway
reaching right up to the crater, obviously the ruins of
domiciles of a different kind that once lined it.
Beyond the hole the roadway continues, beginning a
broad swing away to the right. There are the ruins of old
domiciles up to a point, then there is only a flat rust-brown
expanse of desiccated soil.
She looks towards the high buildings at the horizon,
the urge to get to them still strong. There is no roadway that
she can see leading that way. In fact the land seems to fall
away in the middle distance, reappearing again quite a way
beyond that.
She is at a loss then, the urge to run stymied, yet a need
to move rising like a panic in her. She must run, run
anywhere. So she runs back the way she has come, back
among the domiciles again, until she comes to the first turn
off, which is to her left. She enters this roadway at full tilt,
something of the incipient panic driving her along now. This
roadway is much like the one she has left a bit narrower
perhaps and it seems to stretch before her into the middle
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distance, lines of the domiciles on either side. The only break

in this monotony is the outline of a group of taller buildings
that form the horizon a little to the left of the roadway.
She determines she will run to them. At once the
unease in her recedes. She settles down to the running,
though the sun is once again in a position to cause her some
nuisance.
A trolley machine appears from a side road ahead to
the right. There is the body of a man laid out awkwardly
along it, one arm dangling down one side, a leg hanging out
on the other.
She asks: Whats happened?
This cadaver is to be processed.
She knows the answer, but she asks: Is he dead?
That is correct.
The machine has stopped by her, and she reaches out
instinctively and tries to push the leg up onto the couch. The
limb is stiff and will not be moved.
The machine says, a different tone, cold with static:
The metaphor of flying indicates a delusional state.
Treatment is indicated.
She is surprised to hear this. No machine is competent
in this area.
The machine voice this time is more personalised:
Stress testing is permitted. Medication would be allocated
accordingly.
No. Her reply is intended to be final.
The silence that follows is intense. There is no sound
anywhere in the world.
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She says, pointing down the roadway: What are those

buildings there?
The machine says: Machines have no sight in the
human sense. Indicate the part of this casing closest to the
subject of your enquiry.
She hits the machine in the appropriate place.
That is the Tertiary Reclamation Plant and subsidiary
units.
Youre going there?
That is correct. Its the initial voice again.
She is momentarily undecided. She does not want to
continue towards the buildings. Yet she must run.
This is proposed for your welfare. Delusions can be
dangerous to human wellbeing. The personalised voice is
speaking, a rounded inflection intended to give comfort. It is
quite evident that humans cannot fly. To persist in such a
deluded belief can only lead to danger.
Oh dont be so stupid!
She shouts this very loudly, then she resumes her
running, away from the machine and the dead body, though
she is heading towards the reclamation plant. She focuses on
the tallest of the buildings. It is black clad and matt, partly in
shadow from her perspective. There are no openings apparent
in its blind surfaces. It is a deeply forbidding structure more
so given its function yet she clings to it for relief from a
greater unease.
She thinks: what is wrong with flying? The unease
moves in her. She thinks again: what is wrong with flying?
Now she trembles so much that she must stop running.
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What is wrong with flying?

Its a kind of reaction: she looks up at the sky. The sun
strikes her full in the eyes. She pulls her head away to one
side, away from the sun.
The sky is a powdery blue. The sky is featureless. The
sky is limitless.
Limitless. Only now does the trembling subside.
She thinks: I understand that.
She looks back along the roadway for the trolleymachine. It is not far off, trundling along at what must be the
top speed permitted to it on this kind of surface. It has its
tentacle arms wrapped about the body to keep it in place. She
waits for it to catch up. The time taken allows her to regain
her breath, and to discover that she is very thirsty.
She thinks: no context. Then she thinks: like no
memory.
Then she remembers: happiness.
When the machine finally comes within range, she
calls: What do I know?
The machine does not respond until it has stopped at
her side. Definition: knowledge is memory. Does that
suffice?
The body on the trolley smells: musty, sweet,
degraded. A cloudy fluid drips from the heel of the dangling
leg.
She answers, fascinated by the smell: Memories can
be false.
The machines answer is pat, delivered immediately:
Knowledge need not be true.
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She is looking around again, considering what way she

might go. Then she discovers she is thirsty.
I am thirsty.
The machine jigs in place. After a pause, it says:
Return to your domicile. All your needs will be attended to
there.
She kicks the machine. I dont know where it is.
The machine jigs again. A machine will take you
back.
I dont want to go back.
The machine starts into motion. The body slips, but the
tentacles are quick to stop it. The machine is floundering as it
negotiates the rubble on the roadway. Then it stops again.
A new domicile has been allocated. For the record,
serial four five eight dash dee six, sector one north, Atlantic
Rim community Phoenix. Thank you for your cooperation.
The machine staggers forward again.
Where? Where is it?
The machine has enough speed now to cope with the
rubble. It leaves two thin trails of eddying dust-cloud in its
wake.
She shouts: OPEN!
A door opens in a domicile over to her left. She enters
the air lock. The door behind her closes and another opens in
front of her.
Welcome to your domicile. The facility is fully
automated and self-maintaining. To the left of the entrance
there is the hygiene stall. It will open at your approach.
Directly facing the entrance there is the sustenance hatch. It
108

will activate at your approach. The controls are simple and

clearly illustrated. Leisure provisions are sited to the right of
the entrance. They will activate at your approach. The
controls are simple and clearly illustrated. Items such as
clothing and custom requirements can be obtained at the
Reception. Be happy here.
The voice is highly personalised. It is very familiar.
Light.
She goes straight to the sustenance hatch.
Water.
She drains the beaker in one go. She asks for more
water, and drains that too.
Do you want to eat? An enhanced meal is indicated.
You have been very active since your last meal.
Do it.
She takes the tray over to the couch that rises from the
floor at her approach. The couch says:
You can instruct the recliner to provide the following
attitudes: sitting, viewing, resting, sleeping.
She pushes herself backwards onto the couch. The
action is familiar and reminds her of something. The food is
golden, crisp at first then chewy. The drink is aerated, redpurple in colour, very refreshing. She is very hungry, grateful
for the food.
The feeling afterwards is remarkable. She lets the tray
slide from her hands and falls back onto the couch. It is as
though she could float.
She thinks: this is called pleasure.
Pleasure.
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She closes her eyes.

110

The highland winters make Publicus Aronicus very

miserable. It is much worse this year, because he must spend
time in a pokey shed with a draughty door. Publicus Aronicus
hates draughts. They make him sneeze all the time, and when
he sneezes his nose runs copiously for a long time afterwards.
Publicus Aronicus is not the kind of slave to hate many
things. He tries to tolerate the discomforts of the winters here,
but this year his patience is being tried to the limit. He
consoles himself when he has the presence of mind by
contemplating those fortunate aspects of his life. The
consideration and good humour of his master, Valerius
Rufinus. His comfortable quarters in his masters mansion up
on the hill, away from the noisome throng of the lower city.
There is also his own very pleasant temperament, his capacity
to dawdle and daydream for hours on end when let. Even to
think about the charms and attractions of doing nothing at all
despite the chill, the noise, the whole botheration of his
present situation is enough to draw him away into that
never-never land he believes he actually inhabits.
Oh, but the pesky business of census-taking. He
undertakes it as a favour to his master, who tapped him on the
head a month ago and said, with his mock-ironic cheer:
Ah, Baba, (which is how Valerius Rufinus addresses
his favourite slave) so you must go and count bodies for a
while I fear. Out in the countryside too, imagine. Its a town,
not a pokey little village, so think of all the company you will
have! Tailors, cobblers, spinners and weavers. There will be
street ladies and street boys to count, tanners and tossers,
canners and dossers, priests and purgators as well.
111

Publicus Aronicus is only half awake to this some

pleasant flower garden for his reverie predominant in his
mind and of course he is perfectly agreeable to undertaking
this task on behalf of his master and the Emperor. So he goes
as instructed, with his slates and chalk, sheets of paper and
his pens and inks. There is a badge for his shirt proclaiming
him a Roman Imperial Censor, insignia enough to cow any
subject of his Imperial Divinity.
The shed requisitioned for the Imperial Service sits at
an unfavourable corner of the towns main square, just where
the northbound road lets in all the cold winter wind and rain.
Certainly it has been thoroughly cleaned out, a small army of
the towns seasonal workers at present with nothing better
to do corralled for the occasion, the bales of hay and
mangers, pitchforks and scrapers pushed back into a far
corner. There is his desk now, hammered together as a lean-to
affair by a handy carpenter, and his little three legged stool.
And most all arriving together with bedding and heavy
winter clothing on a noisy cart drawn by two old oxen is the
Imperial Roman brazier, complete with a weeks ration of
charcoal bought locally.
What else? Oh yes. Food. His midday repast: bread,
cheese and olives, rough Samarian wine is brought to him by
a nearby household, who have also contracted to supply him
with a hot meal each evening, to be provided in the comfort
of the households kitchen.
This was all very amusing in late autumn, when
Publicus Aronicus first arrived here. The weather was still
very pleasant and with the harvest completed, he was free to
112

walk where he wished. Did Publicus Aronicus have time to

stroll the countryside? Indeed he had. When the census was
first proclaimed, the unanimous response in the town was:
Not me. Im not telling anyone my business. And I dont
care what kind of army they have.
So Publicus Aronicus spends his first day sitting
quietly in his stable-office, nibs sharpened, inks stirred, his
sheets of paper stacked flat under a cover of stiff leather,
ready for anything. The next few days he spent sitting on his
stool out in the sunshine, eyes closed, already drifting away
into daydream. Some children came to sport with him, but he
is such a nice harmless soul that they actually made friends
with him. They even bring him water during the heat of the
afternoon!
Valerius Rufinus comes for his end-of-week inspection
and Publicus Aronicus learns that the problem is province
wide: no one will register for the census. So, in the second
week of his job as census-taker, Publicus Aronicus feels free
to wander off as the mood takes him. Very pleasant, indeed.
An hour one day along a hill side among the vines, late
ripening grapes to be sampled, his mind a froth of whimsy.
Then another day in the lemon groves, still the heady scent in
the warm dry air, and Publicus Aronicus very purely
transported to another realm. But best of all are the olive
trees. Publicus Aronicus deliberately leaves these to the end.
Since childhood he has had the conviction that each olive is a
little world unto itself. He has never eaten an olive without
paying attention to this fact. He consumes olive in the way
that a god might consume the Earth. Sometimes he would sit
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contemplating an olive on his dinner plate until his mother or,

latterly, his master would chide him for lingering over his
meal.
Among the olive trees, Publicus Aronicus saunters in a
complete dream, head full of an airy nonsense. He finds some
fruit still on a tree. He takes one and sits among the roots. He
contemplates the olive world. Here is the soft exterior and
within the hard core. Just like the earth, with its rocky core
and earthen sheath. He imagines the world of this olive. He
creates plants for its surface, trees and flowering bushes.
There must be rivers and streams, so he creates rivers and
streams. Then there will be animals, both domestic and wild.
The olive world has its animals, domestic and wild. Then
there must also be people, human-like people. But on the
olive world all the people are sunny and smiling, cheerful and
of good will only. Publicus Aronicus has them go about their
business with good cheer, the farmers in his fields, the artisan
in his workshop, the mother in the home, the children at their
lessons. The sun shines all the time on the olive world: there
is no night, there is no darkness, there is no end.
And so on until the cool evening wind touched for
the first time with a winter chill wafts through the orchard.
Publicus Aronicus is reluctant to awaken again to the real
world. He discovers it is late afternoon, the land about him
already deserted. Thinking of his evening meal, he hurries
away down towards the town.
Imagine his surprise on turning into the towns square
to find it crowded with the local men. A greater surprise to
realise that they are all pressing forward towards his little
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office away on the north side of the square. Then they see
him, the census-taker: a great threatening growl rises from the
crowd. Men who might have nodded to him in a lane, who
accepted his presence on their land, are now scowling darkly
and shaking their fists.
What has happened? Soon to relate.
Only that morning apparently a rumour sprang up
somewhere in the province, a rumour that spread like
lightning from town to town, from village to village. The
rumour disclosed the following fact: that land and property,
flocks and orchards not registered during the census would be
regarded by the Roman authorities as being without owners.
Therefore, all such valuables would be offered free to those
willing to register for them. The rumour disclosed that
already an army of godless Syrians was on its way south to
take possession of their homeland.
We will be left to die in the Western Desert, ourselves
and all our kin.
What all this means then to Publicus Aronicus and
the other census-takers in the province is that a months
work would have to be done in two weeks. Actually given
the general panic because of an irrational conviction that the
census would be ending in a day or two the months work
would probably be done in a week.
Not an easy task to achieve. First there was the
introduction of some order to the mob in the square. Queue?
These men had never queued in their lives. Wait? Wait in
line? Put one of these man in line and immediately he wants
to piss, wants a drink, wants to check on an old ewe, wants to
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know his wife. So, there is a queue, but one marked by a line
that the dark clad men are either leaving or rejoining (with
many petty disputes about place in the line). And there is not
a man who on rejoining regardless of how long or short his
absence was who does not complain loudly about the
slowness of the queue.
Now, inside the census-takers office. The village is
ruled by a headman. The headman has four brothers and three
sons. That makes eight burly, frantic man. They stand around
in the background in the office, all staring daggers at poor
Publicus Aronicuss back. Why? This is not rumour; this is
fact. The headman of each community will act as guarantor
for the accuracy of that communitys registration. He will be
held liable for any errors in the villagers declarations.
So we have Publicus Aronicus at his desk, head
permanently down, pen ready, asking each man for the
following information:
(1) his name and the names of his father, mother, and
grandfather;
(2) his original village;
(3) his age and occupation;
(4) any identifying characteristic;
(5) his wife's name and age, his wife's father's name;
(6) his sons names and ages;
(7) the names of other relatives living with him
(8) his assets.
The pages are already ruled with columns for these
categories. All Publicus Aronicus has to do is ask the
questions in a civil tone and write out the answers in his
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legible script. There are some difficulties. Many of the

names, of persons and places, are unfamiliar to Publicus
Aronicus. Asking to have them spelled out creates further
obvious difficulties and embarrassments.
A week, then. Poor Publicus Aronicus has writers
cramp long before that, dulled to a weary stupidity by the
repetition of the same names and the same localities, and
rendered insensible by all the intense prickly reactions of
naturally suspicious men being asked questions that not even
God should ask.
The headman and his kin get involved in all this.
Helping with the spellings is the easy part, sorting out the
matters of property and its value is something else. Publicus
Aronicus witnesses the whole village wives and offspring
appearing as if out of nowhere to intervene taking sides in
disputes about the precise value of a stony patch on the side
of a hill, the extent of grazing rights, exactly what use is
being made of a hut in a back lane. Generations of secrets are
laid bare, and while curiosity is avid at first, each familys
fear of exposure grows to such an extent that it becomes
evident that collusion is more important than getting one over
on a neighbour. As Publicus Aronicus comes to understand it,
the community has to decide if everyone will tell the truth or
if they will all lie, expressed succinctly by one agitated
farmer:
How much does Caesar want from us?
There is another aspect to this matter of perhaps greater
importance to Publicus Aronicus. So many people crowding
about, so much toing and froing, that the shed door stands
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wide open all day long. The wind gets colder that week,
comes lashing down from the north, from the cold cold
mountains. Its fine for the farmers and artisans. They have
their felt cloaks and their anxiety to keep them warm, and a
mouthful or two of the local red wine from time to time. Even
the headman and his kin are managing fairly well. They too
have their cloaks, but they also have the added advantage of
adjacency to the state-supplied charcoal brazier, about which
they congregate.
Publicus Aronicus tries to be firm in this case, realising
that the door will remain open so long as there is a queue of
registrants. The struggle over the brazier is intense and
continuous, yet never remarked upon by anyone. First thing
in the morning, Publicus Aronicus positions the brazier
within an arms reach of his desk, lights the fire and adds the
charcoal. The door to the outside is yet closed, so the early
morning chill is taken off the shed. Then the headman and his
kin arrive. They position themselves around the brazier,
cloaks open and hands held appreciatively towards to the
radiant heat. A small gap is allowed so that Publicus
Aronicus can still receive his share of the warmth. Then the
registration starts, the door is open wide, cold air sweep in
and the shed becomes chilled, then cold.
An unhappy situation. It gets worse. Comes a moment
when Publicus Aronicus must excuse himself and go outside
to relieve himself behind the shed. He returns to find that the
brazier has been shifted away from his desk and that the
headman and his kin have formed a tight circle around it. So
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Publicus Aronicus bustles in among them and retrieves the

brazier, setting it a little closer to his desk than hitherto.
And on it goes all day. Cold cold cold. Chapped
fingers, permanently running nose, feet of ice. Each man will
stand over him, watching carefully what he writes though
none can read, breathing their stale breath mingled with the
fumes of their sour wine. The headman and his kin will
crowd forward, they too trying to read what they cannot read,
hectoring the unfortunate farmer or artisan about the accuracy
of his disclosures. And all the time the cold air blows in upon
poor Publicus Aronicus, blowing onto his legs, over his tired
hands, into his compressed face.
What to do? Not much. If Publicus Aronicus is
annoyed and frustrated by the circumstances, well, so is
everyone else. He keeps his head down, keeps the brazier as
near to him as he can, gets through the long line of men as
quickly as he can.
And comes the day of rest a curious custom of the
natives of the province, one day in the week in which no one
does anything at all: in which in fact they are forbidden to do
anything at all. The shed door is tightly closed all day, the
brazier stacked high with charcoal, Publicus Aronicus
struggling to find his habitual ease under layers of army
blankets. Yes, he warms up alright, even sweats under all the
blankets, but deep inside he remains chilled. Its like his core
has turned to stone, like his soul has petrified. It is so bad that
Publicus Aronicus cannot bring himself to leave the warmth
of the shed for his dinner, making do for that day with what
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was brought to him for lunch, some bread and cheese, olives
he eats without contemplation.
So a restless night, fitful sleep for a time, then awake to
the silence of the night, except of course for the endlessly
buffeting wind outside. It is a night for dwelling on thoughts,
no doubt, perhaps ruminations on past actions, but not one
thought or memory comes forward as a suitable candidate.
His mind is a whirl of thoughts, a fog of overlaid memories.
The truth is that Publicus Aronicus does not want to
contemplate his past in the quiet of the night; he wants only
the oblivion of sleep and to awake on the morrow refreshed.
Publicus Aronicus is not interested in night-thoughts of any
kind: he wants only his day-dreams in the sun.
In any case, the morning comes soon enough. Publicus
Aronicus forces himself out of his bed and dresses feverishly
in the cold air, his inner chill as though greeting its
companion winter chill with chattering teeth. Intense activity
gets the brazier lit and properly stoked pretty quickly. A lot
of haste, then how quiet the morning is. He can hear the
bells of the goats out in the lane as they are herded in for
milking. A dog is barking at the far end of the town; a man is
shouting hoarsely. Publicus Aronicus is at his desk, nibs
sharpened, ink newly stirred, his last few sheets of paper
already ruled.
He must have sat quietly for half the morning, dozing
in a stupor, shivering somewhere within though the brazier
radiates with a cheering hum and crackle. Then three men
sidle into the shed, one by one in close order, and line
themselves abreast in front of the desk. Publicus Aronicus
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has only time for one question asked of the leftmost man, as
the oldest of the trio when the headman comes rushing in.
He shouts at the trio, speaking at such a pitch that Publicus
Aronicus simply cannot understand what he is saying. The
three men hang their heads, each with a sheepish expression
even Publicus Aronicus knows is false.
It turns out that they are brothers, who herd half-wild
goats back of the mountain, that is, in the semi-arid wastes
that extend westwards towards the river. It is also clear that
the headman is unwilling to vouch for their holdings.
Rumoured to be immensely rich and living in tented luxury at
a secret oasis in the desert, they claim to own nothing at all,
not land nor animals. How could counter claims be validated?
Who would be willing to trek through the desert for weeks
perhaps, only to be shown some filthy bivvies and a knife or
two? The arguing is intense, the brothers as obdurate as only
free men can be, the headman as cross as only a man with a
hapless responsibility can be. Publicus Aronicus? He fills out
the meagre details and sits on patiently awaiting his next
client, deafened by the shouting, but distracted for now from
his own misery nonetheless.
Well, this brawl is like a winter storm, furious for the
while and then passing on, to be heard with some relief
receding into the distance. Right across the square the
arguing now reduced to tit-for-tat spite, with some of the
townsfolk adding their say in passing and really only ends
when the brother leave the town altogether, their mocking
laughter sounding out across the narrow wadi that separates
the town from the desert.
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Time then for lunch, Publicus Aronicus still chilly but

usefully distracted, even a little animated by the mornings
adventure. Cheese and bread, and olives. Publicus Aronicus
is not content, what with cold feet and clammy thighs, but he
now has the feeling that most of his trials are over. The
clamour of the morning was just like the finale of a comedy,
the point made perhaps trite but the rattling good fun butters,
as it were, the plain bread of the moral. Publicus Aronicus is
actually thinking along these lines, and just as he gets to the
point of clarifying for himself just what the moral of his time
spent as census-taker in this little town is, the door opens and
a little old man looks in, his frail features fearful.
Publicus Aronicus finds it difficult to take this little
man seriously. If he had the capacity he would be facetious,
at least. The man comes forward, a thin stick in his right hand
that he uses to tap the ground before him, as though he is
blind. He is extremely timid just as withdrawn old people
tend to be and extremely respectful of Publicus Aronicus
the census-taker, with his pens and ruled paper, the big badge
pinned to his shirt. Publicus Aronicus of course is nicely
flattered by this courtesy, and of course it also warms him to
the old man.
Filling out his modest registration takes no time, the
old lads answers prompt and clear. A bit of a hut in the
lower part of the town, where there can be a problem with
flies in the warm seasons, a yard and a pen for his milk goat,
and a patch of land rented for rearing the kids. No wife, no
kin.
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Once all these particulars have been recording, and

Publicus Aronicus appears satisfied with his work, the old
man offers his hand in salutation, the first person in the town
to do so. Publicus Aronicus of course is extremely moved by
this gesture and eagerly takes the old mans hand. At the
door, the old man looks back at Publicus Aronicus and
smiles. It is a soft smile. If it had been smiled by a younger
person, man or woman, it would have been called cute, that
is, sly. Then the old man is gone, the door closed very
carefully behind him.
Publicus Aronicus now realises that the old mans hand
was very soft, the nails clean and neatly trimmed. Not the
hand of an aged goat-herder. Publicus Aronicus smiles,
though he knows very well he shouldnt. Its not often that he
is made privy to a secret.
Now he definitely feels that his work here is done. This
thought invigorates Publicus Aronicus. He realises that he
must make preparations for moving out. There is, for instance
the stack of paper sheets that contains the fruit of his censustaking, all the neatly ruled columns filled as appropriate with
his neat handwriting. He considers the problem presented
here. The blank sheets had been carried from the city
wrapped simply in a length of new sacking, sufficient
protection against the lenient conditions of late autumn. Now
the weather is more threatening. What if there is a storm on
the way back to the city? What if the paper gets wet and all
the ink runs?
It is not normal for Publicus Aronicus to fret in this
way. But then it is not usual for Publicus Aronicus to bear
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such responsibility as he is now bearing. He is pacing up and

down the stable as he worries about the danger to the paper,
his face scrunched in concentration, hands behind his back.
The door opens a little. A very young woman steps in
from the square. Publicus Aronicus flies immediately into an
uncharacteristic flutter. He literally runs across the shed to
her. The young woman could easily be mistaken for a girl,
except that the small bundle she holds close to her breast can
only be an infant in swaddling.
You should not come in here. Publicus Aronicus
means to sound very strict, looking her directly in the eye.
The young woman does not quail as this show of
authority. I am here to register, scribe.
Publicus Aronicus steps even closer. The young
womans skin is very clear much as his own had once been.
You cannot register for a household. You know that very
well.
Now the young woman shifts the burden in her arms
very slightly. She is self-possessed in a way that is at once
unassertive and yet quite determined. I will register for my
husband.
It is Publicus Aronicus who now quavers. He can see
no reason why a wife could not perform the registration; the
information would be should be the same.
Its not clear to me that you can do that. My
instructions are to receive all my information from the head
of the household.

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The young woman takes a deep breath. Her blue robe

is wrapped tightly about her, pulled forward on her forehead,
no doubt as protection against the cold wind outside.
Publicus Aronicus bows slightly. He doesnt know
why he does this, though he is perfectly aware of doing it.
Respect? Yes, something like respect, but more a matter of
him finding some relief in her presence.
Why doesnt your husband come and register
himself?
He is surprised to see the faintest smile appear on her
mouth, her rather handsome lips parting to form the mildest
sneer. It is a sneer somehow shocking as far as Publicus
Aronicus is concerned in one so young and in such a
vulnerable condition but it is tempered in a few seconds by
a more wry expression, as though the young woman has
cause to check herself.
My husband is very shy.
This disclosure is so unexpected though he cannot
see why it should be so that all Publicus Aronicus can do it
echo her lamely:
Shy?
Now it is the young womans turn to bow her head.
She utters a word that Publicus Aronicus does not
understand.
I dont understand.
Her face, when she raises her head to him again,
disturbs him. It is as though some memory is etched there.
Her young face with its sweet flesh and clear green eyes is set
like an ancient pillar pitted by storms. Publicus Aronicus is
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aghast and it must show, for the young woman recollects

herself with a shiver and says:
Discreet. She now smiles that wry smile again,
though this time there is some warmth in it.
Publicus Aronicus nods to acknowledge that he
understands her this time, while simultaneously he is seeing
through the womans play of expressions to the nature of the
problem.
Publicus Aronicus nods again, and in this nod seeks to
tell her what it is he understands.
The young woman nods in response, but even as she
makes this admission a new smile plays across her lips.
Publicus Aronicus is acutely sensitive to this gesture, and
understands that while he might know the nature of the
problem besetting the couple, he has no inkling of its
meaning, its significance.
Publicus Aronicus nods again and at the same times
withdraws himself from her presence. He goes behind his
desk, so that the plank of wood and the accoutrements of his
public office now lie between them. He thinks to sit, then
decides not to. It would be unpardonable to sit in the
company of this young woman. She cannot sit, therefore he
will not sit either.
Once he is stationed behind his desk and has arranged
a pen or two, an inkwell or two, a sheet of paper or two, he
finds that she has drawn close to the other side of the desk.
Publicus Aronicus coughs a little official cough.
What I propose is this. That you will give me the facts
that pertain to you and your circumstances. Then perhaps
126

your husband will come and give me the rest. What do you
say to that?
The young woman raises her brows in an airy
expression, the kind of gesture a juvenile might make, not
knowing how closely people can observe and what
experience and knowledge they might draw upon when doing
so. That would be a start, wouldnt it?
Publicus Aronicus now positions a new ruled sheet and
takes up a pen. He runs his eye across the list of questions he
must ask, then nods ostentatiously:
What is the name of the householders wife?
It is Maryam.
And how old is she?
She is fifteen years and five months of age.
Only now does Publicus Aronicus begin writing. The
name is a common one, so no question of spelling arises. The
age given would seem to be true.
And what is the wifes fathers name?
There is silence. Publicus Aronicus looks up to find
that the woman has drawn apart the swaddling about her
infants face and is now gazing down at it with rapt, glowing
eyes. He coughs his little public official cough again.
Excuse me, little mother, but we must go through
these questions. Otherwise, there is the danger that the
householder could be dispossessed of everything he owns.
The young woman looks up at him. There is a quality
in her gaze the glow, the ardour that passes along to
Publicus Aronicus. He shivers mightily and at once all his
chills and complaints seem to melt away. He gazes back at
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her in wonder, feeling that he is falling away down into eyes

that now are toned like verdigris. Publicus Aronicus is
enchanted, as though all his daydreams are gathered here in
this gaze.
The householders wifes fathers name is Joachim.
The young woman speaks in a gentle tone, as though not
wishing to disturb the census-taker. Publicus Aronicus writes
down the name, which luckily is not uncommon in the
province.
Breaking his gaze with the young woman has brought
Publicus Aronicus to some extent back to his everyday
senses. He checks the titles of the next column on the sheet
before him.
I must ask you now about the householders
offspring. Publicus Aronicus keeps his eyes down on the
sheet of paper. He is blushing. Not shame, not
embarrassment, but a sudden jealousy that he does not
understand immediately. It is not lust that moves him, but a
kind of possessiveness: he resents that this cowardly man
no doubt skulking in the inn down the square at the moment
should have the company of this woman and her child as a
matter of course, perhaps for the remainder of his life. His
voice quivers when he elaborates for her benefit:
You see, I must write down here the names of his sons
and their ages.
Publicus Aronicus steals a quick glance at the young
woman. She is drawing the edge of the swaddling back across
her infants face. She speaks as she does so:
The householder is without issue.
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Publicus Aronicus becomes at once very agitated.

Yes, yes, I am aware of that, little mother. He is not sure
how he should continue, so he rattles among his pens for a
moment, making a show of choosing a replacement pen. But
I assume that the householder is taking responsibility for his
wifes child, is he not?
The young woman looks right into Publicus Aronicuss
eyes. He cannot help but admire her wonderful skin all over
again.
My son is not the householders son, scribe. My son is
the Son of God. She smiles that pained smile of hers, the one
holding the ancient memory that seems to turn her to stone. I
am the Mother of God.
Publicus Aronicus is faintly startled. He knows his
response should be stronger than this. He sees the words
appear in one of the empty columns on the sheet of paper:
Mater Dei.
Then he thinks that this designation might be a rather
coy custom of the people here, perhaps intended to account
for the accidents of rape or incest. This has to be the best
explanation, otherwise he must assume that the maid is
deranged.
Publicus Aronicus looks around the shed. He knows
that this is his last day here. By nightfall he will be back in
the city, in his cosy quarters in the mansion of his master. He
will never see this place again, will never see any of these
people with their half-mad anxieties and insecurities
again. He says without looking at the young woman:
What is the name of your child, please?
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My sons name is Joshua. He will bring peace to this

world, scribe, though they will kill him for that.
Publicus Aronicus writes Joshua another commonenough name in the locality down as the name of the
householders son.
And how old is he, please?
He was born this morning.
Publicus Aronicus writes infant as the householders
sons age, as he should do for a very young child.
God came to me in the form of a bird, scribe. The
young woman is staring at him with her level green eyes.
Publicus Aronicus is embarrassed now, nervous is case
the woman suddenly goes insane in front of him. He smiles
uncertainly.
Like an eagle, do you mean?
The young woman is startled. No, not like an eagle.
Publicus Aronicus senses that humouring her has a
calming effect, so he continues:
Like a swan, then. Zeus covered Leda in the form of a
swan.
It is as though the young woman does not hear him.
God takes the form of a dove, scribe. A pure white
dove.
Publicus Aronicus sees the dirty little pigeons that
invest every town square in the Empire, the endlessly randy
cocks doing their spins before indifferent hens. He can only
gape:
A dove?
130

The young woman swoons a little, her expression

dippy.
The breast of God is very soft and comforting.
Publicus Aronicus stares again, feeling somewhat
offended that some kind of pleasure seems to have been
involved. It makes him huffy.
Well, they are the only questions you can answer on
behalf of your husband, he says with excessive formality.
For the rest, he will have to register in person.
The young woman makes what appears to be a moue,
as much to say that she can take or leave it too. She turns
about and gets herself and her new infant son out of the shed,
back into the drear cold day outside.
Publicus Aronicus feels all cold again. He jumps to his
feet and runs up close to the brazier. His teeth want to chatter
but he wont let them. He thinks: there are times when you
see a little path open up somewhere to one side, a path that
leads to something like happiness, like satisfaction and cheer.
Publicus Aronicus is now very sad.
The door opens again and a tall thin man stands in the
entrance, arms hanging by his sides, extremely cold air
whistling around him into the stable. Publicus Aronicus
stamps his foot, a dull thud on the packed earth:
Shut that door, will you, you idiot!
He runs over, fist clenched, doubly irritated because
the man is so slow in responding. He has actually to shut the
door himself, giving it a good swing, so that it slams against
the jam and bounces back, the catch unable to engage under
such force.
131

At this point the man does move himself. His hand is

on the catch at once, the door closed firmly and locked in one
smooth sweep.
Publicus Aronicus had been about to shout again;
instead more than a little deflated he finds his way to his
side of the desk, clutching at its edge as though to feel his
way there.
The young man takes up station on the other side. He is
still young, no more than in his early twenties, tall and thin,
with a thick dark beard that grows up his face almost into his
eyes. He says:
I am Joseph, the husband of Maryam. I have come to
register.
Publicus Aronicus ought now as a public official
get on with his business, but he bristles at once, a jealousy
more intense now that he has met her husband. He hides his
agitation by rooting overlong among his pens. Then he lets
his eyes run across the sheet on the desk, lingering on the
entries he had made at the behest of the young woman.
The feeling is more like despair than anything Publicus
Aronicus has experienced within himself before. He sees in
this black despond an acknowledgement that something that
he didnt know he wanted is now no longer possible. There is
a dangerous instability in the feeling, a temptation to
abandonment. He cannot help but surrender to it. He lays his
finger on the entry on the sheet and asks, acidly:
Are you, for the purpose of this registration, the father
of your wifes child?
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The transformation in the young man is almost

instantaneous:
Do you think I will disclose my private affairs to some
Romans aging bumboy?
Publicus Aronicus finds that he has long expected
someone in this town to pass such a remark as this. The
wonder is that it has not happened before now, when there
might have been as much provocation. And of course
Publicus Aronicus has long had his answer ready, not as
directly insulting, merely a reminder of the real state of
affairs:
Answer my question, Jew.
And of course the young man pulls in his horns
immediately, the reality of power the ultimate reality.
I am his legal guardian, otherwise he remains Gods
own.
Publicus Aronicus falters. You believe your wifes
story?
The young man smiles, though it is hard to discern
much through his thick beard:
I dont have to.
Mmm? This is all Publicus Aronicus can manage.
We were betrothed. The young mans moment of
candour passes and his brown eyes grow fierce again. You
have other questions?
But that doesnt explain anything. Publicus Aronicus
expostulates here, perhaps revealing the degree to which he
has become involved in what might become a dangerous
situation.
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But the young man seems not to notice the censustakers heat. Instead he uses the restrictions of his official
position against him: Do you have any more questions to ask
me, or do you not?
And Publicus Aronicus is browbeaten here. The height
of the young man, the large bushy beard, the righteousness of
his position as spouse of the young women were already
tilting the scales in his favour; now that he has managed to
put Publicus Aronicus on the defensive is enough to give him
the moral advantage.
So, that was the end of that. The few questions the
census-taker had were answered curtly. Publicus Aronicus
learns he is dealing with an upright artisan, of a long line of
upright artisans, a carpenter and already a master with his
own workshop and domicile in a village somewhere to the
northeast of the town. Publicus Aronicus has never heard of
the place, so he is aware that he might well have spelled it
wrongly. But who is there to ask? The towns mayor would
have no interest in this outsider, and Publicus Aronicus is
most certainly not going to put himself under obligation to
the young man.
Not a happy end to his period of duty as official
Roman census-taker. There is an emptiness where there
should be nothing at all, a service performed for his master,
no more. Yet he feels as though something has been taken
from him. It is an extremely disquieting sensation. This fact
surprises Publicus Aronicus, until he realises that he is
dealing with a memory, not an event. And the memory?
Publicus Aronicus knows the memory. It has no name. It
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might be the fact of slavery, or the fact of being born, or the

fact of being susceptible.
There is only a gap, nothing where something should
be, though Publicus Aronicus has never managed to discover
what it is he lacks. Yes, he has considered the strangeness of
having knowledge of something he can have no knowledge
of. Very strange, indeed, but even stranger is the fact that as
Publicus Aronicus firmly believes it is not an experience
unique to himself.
Anyway, Publicus Aronicus vents a big sigh, some
momentary consolation in his sadness and decides it is time
to eat his evening meal, his last meal in this town. The
household which supplies this meal will be aware of this fact
too. Publicus Aronicus has always attended their meals
strictly as a paying guest, outside of the basic demands of
hospitality. He would sit on their cushions and eat whatever
was put in front of him, eyes down, just the minimum of
salutations and blessings. His conduct was respected, partly
out of intense fear of the man and his office, partly out of
intense hatred of him as a stooge of Rome. He never knew if
they served him the leavings of the swill they fed their
animals or if they felt obliged to rise to what they thought
were his standards. The food was doubly strange to him:
foreign and peasant, and he could never discover if the
sometimes revolting flavours and odours were the result of
the actual condition of the food they cooked or of their
attempts to disguise that condition.
It was not a meal Publicus Aronicus looked forward to
for obvious reasons but he had to eat. Besides, it got him
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out of the shed for an hour or two each day and allowed him
to bask in the comfortable warmth of the large kitchen. That
much of this warmth was provided by the animals tethered in
a corner opposite the hearth disgusted him at first, but he
soon came to terms with it. After all, it was a universal
custom and made perfectly good sense.
So, today the last day and Publicus Aronicus wraps
up in the dark blue Legionnaire cloak provided him for
outdoor use, takes a last deep breath of the warm air of the
stable and gets himself out into the cold winter evening. It is
as cold as he feared it would be, a mean blustery wind
whipping in from the mountains to the north. The square is
completely deserted, everyone tucked up at home. It is, as
Publicus Aronicus has learned, how the inhabitants of the
province cope with the beginnings of winter. This is
something they can afford to do: the animals can still find
grazing in the orchards on the last of the windfall, so it will
be a week or two yet before the annual ritual of preparing the
winter feed begins.
Actually, the square is not entirely deserted. The
dominant feature of the square is the huge old sycamore that
grows up on its northern edge. No one is sure why it was
planted there: it provides little shelter in the summer and does
nothing to abate the stream of cold air in the winter. But it is
growing where it is growing, hundreds of years old, massive
with the wide, open spreading crown of its species. Now it is
rapidly shedding its leaves, falling even as Publicus Aronicus
glances over like crumpled sheets of paper onto the chilled
unwelcome earth.
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The carpenter and his wife are sheltering in the lee of

the tree, the husband stood upright and unbending as the wind
whips about his mantle, his wife seated in a crouch at its foot,
the child completely hidden in the fold of her mantle.
This strikes Publicus Aronicus as an unbelievable
scene. Almost every house in the town will have its
complement of sheltered and no doubt contented folk this
miserable evening, a hubbub of talk and laughter, the bustle
of food preparation, a long idle evening ahead. Yet no one
has thought to invite this little family in for even a time to
warm themselves, perhaps accept a morsel or two, at least
something from some other mother for the infant.
Well, they are a funny people, furious in their own
interests and scathing at the expense of others, jammed
together by blood and splintered by ancient enmities.
Publicus Aronicus can suddenly see this so clearly: how the
accidents of birth determine the lives of this people and how
a destiny can grow out of the accumulation of such accidents.
Publicus Aronicus thinks this, then he thinks what an
excellent insight this is.
Accident.
He turns about braving the mean wind and goes
across to the young family, calling as he approaches:
Dont you have somewhere to go?
He knows he has spoken loudly in a semi-official tone,
within a hairs breadth of sounding like the condescending
Roman he appears to be.
The husband does not even look at him, keeping his
face turned towards the pale bark of the trees trunk. But
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Publicus Aronicus hardly notices this: he is looking avidly at

the woman crouched on the ground, hoping she will favour
him one more time with those startling eyes of hers.
When he speaks again, it is to fill up what appears to
him as a vacancy in the world: as though the winters
evening, the town and its inhabitants, the little group before
him, and himself do not add up to the whole they had
previously appeared to do.
You should have consideration for the child, at least.
Now the young woman does look up. Yes, her eyes do
flash in the thin brittle light, and yes, Publicus Aronicus goes
weak at the knees, so full of an immediately intelligible love
for her.
He speaks this time without thought:
You should come and shelter in the stable. He turns
and points with his arm exposed. Should this be done?
Publicus Aronicus has already decided that it can be done. He
speaks on, finding a vent for his feelings in this way,
addressing her so that she will continue to look at him:
There is room for you all. There is warmth and straw
for rest. There is water and I will get you some food. You
can shelter there until you are ready to return to your home.
The young woman nods abruptly and glances up at her
husband. Publicus Aronicus should now switch his attention
to the husband, perhaps to get his personal assent, perhaps
just to reassure everyone. But he does not do this. When the
woman turns her head to look up towards her husband, her
mantle shifts sufficiently for Publicus Aronicus to be given a
glimpse of the child. He sees that it is feeding at the breast, its
138

little head bobbing back and forward as it sucks strongly on

the nipple. Publicus Aronicus can only see its forehead, the
thin line of an eyebrow, the glint of one eye in its shadowed
socket.
That eye is observing Publicus Aronicus.
Yes, we are willing to accept your offer, scribe. This
is the husband speaking, his voice thin in the cold air, a
parched unhappy sound.
Publicus Aronicus must now look away from the
infant, must tear his eyes away from that eye. He says, aware
even as he speaks that a glow is suffusing his body, perhaps
lighting up his face with joy:
Yes, that is good. If you will come with me, I will
show you.
The husband is still erect and stiff, the nose protruding
from his beard blue and shining wet, his eyes watered. He
looks so miserable; so listless and miserable. When the young
woman makes her first attempt to get to her feet, Publicus
Aronicus must watch helplessly as her legs give way and she
plumps down on the cold earth again, arms tightening her
embrace of the child in alarm. But then a shaft of anger
shoots through him, so that he barks at the husband:
Perhaps you should help your wife.
The young man starts and looks down. The young
woman is trying to brace an arm against the tree trunk, while
clutching the infant with her other arm. It is all Publicus
Aronicus can do not to bend down and take the child from
her arms, to hold it to his own breast while she gets to her
feet. But he can only say:
139

Perhaps if you held the child while she gets to her

feet?
The young man stares at Publicus Aronicus, a strange
look crossing his face, in part fear, in part also something like
a profound reluctance, as though he knew he did not possess
the moral strength to do such a thing. Publicus Aronicus is so
struck by this understanding of the young mans sense of
unworthiness that he at once asks himself why he thinks that
he a Roman slave should be any more worthy to hold the
child.
And yet he knows that he is worthy.
He bends to the young woman and open his arms
(indifferent to the wave of cold air that rushes in under his
cloak).
I will hold the child for you, if you wish.
And the young woman does surrender her embrace of
the child to Publicus Aronicus. He folds it into his arms with
the most tender care he can manage though he has never
before held a child of any age in his arms and shelters it
under his great felt cloak, holding it in against the warmth of
his breast.
The young woman is so cold and stiff that she must use
the tree trunk as support in order to get to her feet.
Publicus Aronicus knows he is blessed. Where the
shoulder and arm of the infant contact his flesh that place
exactly above his heart a glow has begun to radiate into
him. Publicus Aronicus knows that glow will never cool, that
it will never leave him.
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Then the young woman is on her feet, a little shaky

still but she is sturdy, settling the dark blue mantle about her
shoulders again, until she is ready to retrieve her child.
Publicus Aronicus surrenders the infant willingly, bringing
him forth into the cold air with infinite gentleness and
allowing the young woman the Mother of God, as Publicus
Aronicus thinks at that moment to lift the little bundle up
into her own arms and fold him away under her mantle. Then
she looks directly into Publicus Aronicuss eyes and smiles a
wan but grateful smile for him.
That is as it should be as far as Publicus Aronicus is
concerned. A proper gratitude with proper warmth. It allows
him to glow all over. Publicus Aronicus smiles, a full warm
smile that would appear strange to anyone who knew him. He
says in the thrall of the benevolent warmth:
He is beautiful, little mother.
Only the eyes of the young woman respond; only her
eyes can respond, given the situation. But it is enough for
Publicus Aronicus, more than enough.
The husband sniffs. He has the edge of his mantle
pressed against his nose, to absorb the dribble there. Publicus
Aronicus says loudly, meaning it to be a punctuation mark:
Right. Let us go then.
Of course Publicus Aronicus wants to take the young
woman by the elbow to guide her, to support her, to touch
her but of course he does no such thing. He walks just
forward of her, adapting himself to her shorter pace, the
husband coming up in the rear, for all the world like a family
goat that would follow those that feed it anywhere.
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And the shed is warm. In fact, after the utter misery of

out-of-doors, the shed is very warm indeed. Publicus
Aronicus is happy to open the door to the little family, usher
them in and move them away from the chilling air about the
door to the back of the stable. Here it is extremely snug, all
the straw, hay and wood having long ago absorbed their
quota of warmth from the charcoal brazier.
Publicus Aronicus fusses. He delights in his fussing.
He drags forward a low manger, heaps it with warm straw,
bedding it down nicely. Then more straw he strews on the
beaten earth all about, to help keep the young man and
woman warm too. Then he gets the skin of water that hangs
beside his desk, which he hangs from a convenient dowel
within their reach. Then he gets his little three-legged stool
and sets it close by the manger. What more can he do? The
single candle on his desk he augments with another candle
from his little store tucked away under the desk. Two candles
certainly increase the illumination towards the back of the
shed, but there is yet a feeling of grey gloom there, despite
the warmth. So he breaks out the remaining stock of candles,
thick quality candles from Rome itself. So, now there are
eight candles clustered on the desk, flickering and wavering
in each others heat, and the shed is as though lit for a
banquet, as though for a public reception.
Publicus Aronicus is satisfied. He turns in the middle
of the shed and extends his hands to the family, as much as to
say, What to you think of that?
And what indeed? The young couple seemed stunned,
as well they might be, transported just like that from the
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desolation of the vacant square with only a balding old tree

for company to the snug comfort of a large shed, which they
have all to themselves. They are stunned, numb and drowsy
with the warmth. They are hungry too, it must not be
forgotten, a dull and implacable pit in their entrails, a deadly
coldness to rival what the winters evening had to offer them.
So Publicus Aronicus rubs his hands with deep
satisfaction for having the courage of his conviction, so
happy to have the means at his disposal rightly or wrongly
as may yet be decided to do what he feels should be done.
For once, he has not had to turn to his master for such help, to
beg a favour for a goodness no doubt, but still a favour that
must be pleaded for.
Publicus Aronicus can now go to his dinner with a
light heart. And he does cross the square with a lightened
tread, unconscious of the cold mean wind that helps him on
his way, the warmth radiating from his heart more than the
equal of this raw process of nature. And it is as though some
news of his kind act has gone before him. He steps across the
threshold to the hosts kitchen and it is clear that the whole
family gaffers and gammers, mothers and fathers, sons,
daughters, cousins, second cousins, poor relations, right down
to the smallest toddler crouched in the straw over by the
animals has heard something of his decency. Their eyes
light up at his entrance, lips part in happy smiles gleaming
teeth brilliant in the dimming afternoon light and they all
stand up out of respect for him.
Publicus Aronicus thinks this is incredible, meaning:
how could they know? But of course he responds faithfully to
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this cheer, the gladness in his heart multiplied over and over
as waves of bliss pass through him. He raises his hands to
calm the rising enthusiasm, saying sometimes in Aramaic and
sometimes in Latin:
It is good cheer, my friends. It is good cheer.
The hubbub quietens soon enough, the household
settling back into the good cheer that Publicus Aronicus has
proposed. Then the patriarch stands up again. A short stocky
man, fierce and persistent but with a keen understanding of
the value of tolerance, he open his arms, palms upwards,
towards Publicus Aronicus and proclaims:
We see, Roman slave, that you have fulfilled your
duties here with thoroughness and integrity. We wish you to
know that you have earned our gratitude.
Publicus Aronicus is astonished by this compliment. It
is not what he had expected. He answers, trying hard to
match the householders formality:
But, my friends, when I can only respond to the
dictates of the heart that is filled with universal love
Publicus Aronicus realises that the family doesnt
know what he is talking about, faces closing down rapidly to
their more normal stolidity. He shakes his head. The patriarch
is quick to interject:
We are only honest Jews, Roman official, who pay
our dues and make sacrifice as prescribed up in the Temple.
Publicus Aronicus can only nod now, and nod again.
He finds his place in the circle and sets down into the deep
cushions. Perhaps he should be embarrassed at least that
but Publicus Aronicus cannot connect what has happened to
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how he is feeling. He is convinced that he cannot be wrong. I

am joyous forever, he tells himself with a flat conviction.
So the food comes round as usual. A large bowl of
sheeps milk is circulated for each to quaff from as a kind of
appetiser. Then there are the delicacies; this evening Publicus
Aronicus is given both eyes of the slaughtered kid, no doubt
in praise of his vigilance. After that the main course of boiled
lentils with barley as an accompaniment to the roast meat.
Various sweetmeats mostly candied fruit then to end the
meal. It certainly is a grand meal by the standards of the clan,
and it is eaten with much merriment, the children becoming
especially boisterous as the rough local wine circulates, all of
them wanting in turn to sit up in his lap, there to kick their
heels and scream with pleasure. The adults are very diverted
as might be expected but the women draw a line when the
middle daughter, who is about to become fertile, attempts to
drop her virginal bottom onto Publicus Aronicuss thin
thighs.
Yet, the good cheer is maintained almost to the last.
There is the usual fuddle when Publicus Aronicus clambers
up from the cushions, he bowing left and right to everyone in
acknowledgement, the matrons scrambling up and heading
with alacrity around to clear a way for him, the men as usual
slow to rise, preferring to doze the evening away where they
lay.
Getting towards the door, Publicus Aronicus can at last
broach the matter of buying some food for a journey. Of
course there is no question of the good census-taker paying
for the snack he will need for his journey back to the city. But
145

when it turns out that he wants a full loaf of bread and a full
cheese, well, compensation might be in order then, especially
as the good census-taker is offering to pay. Publicus Aronicus
takes out the few copper coins he has reserved for local
purchases and the women bring the bread and cheese, the
latter a lump of hard goats cheese the size of two fists.
Haggling takes less time than expected mainly due to
Publicus Aronicuss lack of experience so that the
womenfolk get a very good price for their wares. Actually,
there is a general feeling afterwards that the census-taker has
been taken advantage of. The matrons, of course, see nothing
wrong with that, but faced with an outcry from all of the
children they relent and add a skin of wine as a gift to
Publicus Aronicus.
There. Out into the cold evening at last, light ebbing
rapidly, the wind cutting mercilessly now that the suns
influence has been eclipsed. Publicus Aronicus crouches over
the provisions he embraces close to his breast and pushes his
way back up the square to the stable. The door is ajar.
Publicus Aronicus tuts at this carelessness and waste. Inside,
the first thing to be noticed is the strong animal odour.
Publicus Aronicus has never experienced this before he
cannot identify what he is smelling but the strangeness fills
him with a tremendous terror. He knows he is not afraid of
the odour itself; rather it is that the odour has the effect of
opening something like a gate within him, and it is what lies
beyond this gate that unnerves him. He cannot describe what
he fears here: it is like a path going down a hill; it is like a
146

small dark room with no door; it is like having no limbs yet

being able to move.
A small man no taller than himself is approaching
Publicus Aronicus, hands outstretched in greeting. He is not
old but his face is wizened by exposure to sun and dry winds.
He wears only animal pelts as clothing. He cries out into
Publicus Aronicuss face:
And the angel said, brother, all praise to God in the
Highest and on Earth peace to all those of good will.
He lays his hands on Publicus Aronicuss shoulders
and draws him into a hearty embrace.
Sheepskins, Publicus Aronicus realises. He is smelling
sheep. Nothing to be afraid of. The relief is ridiculously great,
so much so that Publicus Aronicus actually cheers in concert
with the shepherd who embraces him and with as he now
sees the other shepherds gathered round the young woman
and her child. Publicus Aronicus goes directly across to the
young man Joseph and presents him with the provisions.
The young man is bemused, still doped by the warmth.
Publicus Aronicus says:
These will sustain you on your journey home. He
glances at the young woman crouched on the beaten earth at
their feet, the child hidden in the folds of her mantle. His
heart is pierced all over again, as though he has not had a
heavy meal in cheering company.
Your wife is in need of sustenance. Remember that
she gave birth only this morning and has been exposed to the
cold all day.
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Publicus Aronicus could cry with love and pity to see

her little head bowed as it is, weariness inscribed in every
line of her huddled form.
The young man says: My wife is strong, scribe. We
are an enduring people.
The anger rises sharply: You confuse endurance and
sufferance, young man. Right now you are being careless.
The husband looks at Publicus Aronicus with surprise
that he could command such words and then at last
unbends sufficiently to accept the cheese, the bread and wine.
Now you will thank me.
It seems for a moment that the young man will not be
able to bring himself to do this, then in this too he relents:
I thank you, scribe, for your consideration.
And a voice from below adds:
And I thank you too, kind man, both for myself and
for my son.
Publicus Aronicus is transfixed. He had not thought to
expect this the young womans spoken gratitude for if he
had, he would never have been able to carry it off. He bends
towards her:
It is nothing, little mother, compared with what I wish
I could do for you and your son.
The young woman looks up. There are dark smudges
of exhaustion under her eyes. Her face is stony. The sight of
this pierces the heart of Publicus Aronicus. It is all he can do
not to touch her, to console her. But she releases her right
arm from her mantle and stretches it down towards the
ground at a shallow angle, forefinger pointing. Then the
148

infant frees its right arm from its swaddling and stretches it
down exactly parallel to the arm of his mother, his little
forefinger pointing towards the dry pebbly earth.
The infant smiles an open gummy smile, its magnetic
eyes boring up into the eyes of Publicus Aronicus.
What can he do now? Oh, he can fall on his knees like
the shepherds and cry out Alleluias. Can he? Of course not
he cannot accept the sheep odour, meaning he cannot go
down that darkening path. What then?
Publicus Aronicus smiles a happy smile, and bows
deeply to the mother and infant. He says:
Thank you.
Neither mother or child appear to hear him, but then
Publicus Aronicus is not fully conscious of what he has just
said.
He turns away. The door of the shed is being pushed
open with some force. A tall cavalry officer steps in, a huge
man resplendent in inlaid armour, a bear skin draped across
his shoulders, the bears head fitting neatly over his own
immense head. Valerius Rufinus now enters the stable,
looking frail in contrast to his escort. He smiles to see his
Baba, extending his hands in an intimate greeting.
Publicus Aronicus looks back at the mother and child,
asking himself:
Who am I?

149

She feels the couch as though uncoiling from her,

flattening out under her even as she surfaces from sleep.
1,047,925 red; -2.46 amber.
Im broke. Its like a new thought while she knows that
it is not.
She rolls on to her back. The light in the room is blue,
the ceiling an unmarked expanse of this blue.
A need for sustenance is indicated. Please go to the
sustenance hatch immediately.
She thinks: blue light is restful. Then she thinks: The
machines have no eyes. They cannot see.
The hatch has opened. The other machine voice says:
Choose from the menu. Appropriate liquid
refreshment will accompany your choice.
She sees little images of differently coloured packs.
She hovers a finger over one and the voice says: Enhanced
for activity. Fruit.
Testing another results in: Consolidated for leisure.
Alcohol.
The
third
image
draws
this
description:
Comprehensive for recovery. Milk.
Now the other voice, a stricter tone impersonal is the
word she finds for it says:
You should choose the comprehensive meal. You have
slept for a very long time and your body is depleted.
She presses for the comprehensive meal. Nothing
happens.
The friendly machine says: Your meal is being
prepared. Perhaps you should be cleansed.
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She sees the door at the end of the chamber open.

When she gets there, the voice advises her to undress first.
The warm spray is very welcome, and she finds she can
anticipate many of the actions of the cleaning process. She
turns and bends willingly when she is instructed to do so.
Something soft and warm is inserted into her vagina. She
starts, wanting to move away, but the voice says to ease her:
You have engaged in sexual congress which has
resulted in severe abrasions to the vaginal passage. You
should ensure that you and your partner, or partners, take
care to arrange that you are sufficiently lubricious before
engaging in sexual congress in the future.
She is only now aware of the pain, really a low ache
that extends right up into her body. She feels the instrument
moving inside her and then feels the relief that follows in its
train.
Afterwards, she finds her gown folded neatly on a shelf
beside the door. She knows it has been cleaned, the fabric
soft and springy to the touch.
A low chime sounds behind her. A tray sits in the
hatch, bearing two bowls and a beaker. She takes it to the
couch. The couch forms itself into a seat as she approaches, a
small table rising on the left that she can swing over in front
for the tray.
Hesitant at first, she finds pretty quickly that she
knows exactly what to do. She uses a spoon to consume the
contents of the nearest bowl a warm jelly-like concoction,
sweet and light. Then she uses fork to eating the contents of
the second bowl, a flaky, crunchy food, salt evident though
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sweetness as well. The liquid in the beaker she knows is milk,

white and fatty, very satisfying.
Repletion induces a lethargy that lasts quite a while,
she drifting in a dreamless stupor. Then the faraway voice
speaks to her, the crackle and hiss familiar enough to prompt
her awake.
The recommendation that you accept treatment for
your delusion still obtains. It is a simple matter of a tasteless
and odourless addition to your sustenance. There will be no
adverse effect. You will
She jumps up from the couch, the anger like an
enormous thrill coursing through her. She shouts:
NO!
But the voice continues:
Machine is bound by the principle that the human
beings have an absolute right to self-determination. The
decisions of every human being, regardless of his or hers
condition at the time, must be accepted by machine. But
machine also has responsibility for the well-being of every
human being on the planet. It is programmed to attend to all
the needs of human beings
She screams as loudly as she can:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHH!
She runs to the exit door, darts into the airlock shouting
Open! Open! Open! and runs out into the open air. The grit
on the roadway is cutting into her feet. She must return to the
domicile for the shoes.
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The faraway voice says as she re-enters the main

chamber:
Machine can only repeat the recommendation when
the opportunity arises. There is no
She is back outside again. She looks at the wealth
clock in her wrist, a kind of reflex movement:
995,387 red; -2.83 amber.
The sky is huge, extending from horizon to horizon.
The sun is over to one side, shining, it seems, directly at her.
Domiciles exactly like the one she has just left line either
side of the roadway in both directions. It is perfectly quiet,
except for her own breathing, still laboured after all her
exertion.
Im broke, she tells herself. I am here because I am
broke.
What to do? It is a question she answers by stepping
out into the middle of the roadway, stumbling at times until
she gets used to the unevenness of the littered surface. The
sun is very insistent, shining implacably into her face. She
must turn away from it: she is unnerved by the sense that the
brightness of the sunlight seems to draw attention to what
appears to be a shadow within herself. So she turns away to
the left, to walk that way on the road, away from the sun.
There is a line of low hills on the horizon, mottled a
dirty purple colour, but otherwise the tan of parched land.
The roadway runs to a horizon some distance away, then
begins to run down what seems judging from how the lines
of domiciles dip and then vanish a very shallow incline. A
line of taller buildings jut above the horizon a little to the left
153

of the roadway, the tallest no more than a block of matt

black, like a chunk of darkness in the bright day.
It is something to aim at. She sets off along the
roadway.
It is so quiet. She finds that she is very aware of this
quietness, going so far as to avoid breaking it as she works
her way among the debris. There is of course the odd scrape
and scratch of the coarse litter, but it serves only to heighten
the utter stillness of the world about her. She cannot avoid
this concentration on the silence, but it is not a good thing to
do. She gets to the state where she begins to anticipate any
breaking of the silence, and the more successful she is in
avoiding noise, the more tense she becomes about what by
now seems to her to be the danger of making a sound.
As it happens, the quiet is broken not by her
carelessness, but by an approaching trolley, which she hears
bouncing its clumsy way towards her along the roadway. She
stops, her tension switching just like that to a sudden dread. It
is a real fear, though she cannot name it nor remember its
origin.
The machine judders to a halt in front of her. It is only
a frame of some dull metal on fat soft wheels, a flat sheet of a
blue fabric stretched between parallel rails, and a black
control box at the end nearest to her, but it fills her with an
unreasonable fear.
When the machine utters a word, she simply screams
out loud so she cannot hear what it has to say. Then the panic
grips her. She rams her hands flat against her ears and begins
to run. She runs, just runs away. Though her hands are
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pressed tightly to her head, she can hear the familiar pitch of
the machines voice behind her, though she is careful to resist
her curiosity about what it is saying.
She is running away from the sun towards the tall
buildings. She reaches the local horizon and finds that the
roadway does enter a shallow decline, heading down towards
what is a landscape of utter ruination. Even she understands
that the uneven texture of the land is caused by the huge piles
of rubble that stretch away towards the low hills. Desiccation.
She thinks this word and immediately knows what it signifies
here: dryness, aridity, lying unprotected under the sun for a
long time. And so this landscape: dry, dusty, a crumbling
away of something once active and meaningful.
The machine has drawn up close behind her. It is
saying something about recommendation when she turns and
pushes it as hard as she can. It rocks violently and the voice
falters in a jumble of static.
She is grimly gratified by this. She asks:
What is this?
That is the Tertiary Reclamation Plant and subsidiary
units.
For a moment she feels extremely stupid, then she
realises that she is feeling this stupefaction. She is very
angry. She kicks the machine as best as she can with the heel
of her shoe.
Not that, dummy. The ruins beyond it.
The machine has finally stopped swaying, helped by
the fact that her second blow has damped the result of her
earlier shove. It sits quietly for a while, gleaming here and
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there in the sunlight. Then another voice speaks, a fully

mechanical archival tone:
The city of Dublin West was flashed in 2456 and
resulted in the instant annihilation of about two and a half
million people. It was afterwards abandoned completely as
being of no economic or strategic importance. The area is
now the site of the Western Littoral sub-brachial access line
of the World Circuit. The machine activity hereabouts is
related solely to the maintenance of this line.
She knows what the machine has said, though strictly it
should mean little or nothing to her. A flash was a weapon, in
this case the arc of some arcane force between the Moon and
the Earth. The force of the arc increases rapidly with distance.
She knows it was used once to destroy a moon orbiting
Saturn, the arc originating in that instance in the Sun. She
knows that it was an experiment demonstration that had
catastrophic consequences.
She says: Scuper wrote that mankind has always
misunderstood paranoia.
The machine remains silent. She wonders at this, and
then continues:
He argued that the paranoia was real.
When the machine continues not to speak, she asks:
Do you understand this?
The machine speaks then, the far away voice, frizzled
as always with static:
Harold Scuper, Chief Superintendent at Benares, born
2378, died 2403, suicide. Source, When I Awaken, first
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published in Canton in 2436, pages 23 and 32. The answer is

no.
She nods, satisfied that the point has finally been made.
She says:
Well, I do.
She turns and walks away, away from the machine and
away from the sun. She walks in a long stumping stride, feet
skittering on the debris, as a kind of silly defiance. It is as
though not her who walks just now, but another being, who
has a sense of irony totally foreign to her. She hears the
trolley machine start up behind her and begin to follow,
keeping pace, its progress noisier as its wheels grind down
bits of old mortar and send the odd stone pinging away from
under their treads.
But the machine is silent. She is very pleased by this.
So she stumps along for a good while, still pleased with
herself, the roadway beginning a long curve leftwards,
towards the Reclamation plant, the blue sky seeming large in
that direction as the land falls away. The silence hangs in the
air behind her like a dark shadow. This is how it feels to her.
She can hear the crunchy skitter of the trolley as it keeps pace
with her. She is listening hard to this noise, waiting for
something. Waiting of course for the machine to speak. She
is convinced it will speak again.
It becomes what seems a test of nerve. She is at the
stage of wanting the machine to speak, even though she does
not want to hear what it might have to say. She is pent up
with anticipation. Yet she has the resources within herself to
ask this question: Why do I so want the machine to speak?
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Answer? Otherwise, I will speak.

Such a good answer, such a revealing answer. And if
she speaks?
She will not know what she is saying. The machine
will not know what she is saying.
She stops walking. There is a further thought here, a
coy thought filled with such implication.
There is someone who will understand what she has to
say.
She is overwhelmed by this knowledge. For an instant
she understands that she is going somewhere, to meet
someone.
Then she panics again. She runs forward, stumbles on a
larger than usual lump of masonry, stops running. She turns
and waits for the machine to catch her up.
Why do you follow me?
I am assigned that task.
What task?
The task of watching over you.
Are you spying on me?
I am to offer assistance should you request it.
She becomes aware of a low sustained scrabbling
noise. A line of machines is approaching them, coming in a
long file over the horizon back up the roadway. The line is
not straight; the machines must individually navigate their
way through the litter. So the machines approach as if in a
dance, some machines swinging to the right while others
swing left.
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Each bears a cadaver. The first machine to come by

bears the especially gruesome remains of a man who was so
brutally castrated that the gouges have allowed much of the
intestines to slide out between his thighs, where they lie now
congealed in a cake of blood and yellow fluid. The bloody
butt of his gonads protrudes from his mouth. On the next
trolley in line a body lies out in apparent peaceful repose. A
squat individual, large square hands clenched by his side, his
face betrays only a mild curiosity, eyes still swivelled over to
the left. The only unusual feature is a deep depression in the
side of his face, and a trickle of dried blood extending down
from his left eye.
The machine says, speaking the far-off crackling voice:
Kishoti argued specifically against Scuper that the aetiology
of paranoia indicates that it is a condition of mind, not of an
objective reality. Source, The Grieving Mind, Honshu, 2438.
Persecution can induce paranoia, but the persecution as an
objective reality cannot itself be termed paranoiac.
Bodies are passing in review, many with obvious signs
of severe injury. The corpse of a naked woman lies face down
on a trolley, only the faeces and blood dried to her inner
thighs giving any indication of the cause of her death.
The far-off voice says after a while: You must agree
that this is a reasonable argument.
On one trolley, the eyes of the body stretched out there
suddenly open and begin to swing wildly from side to side.
He sees her standing there in the middle of the roadway as he
is driven past. He becomes very agitated, but is obviously
unable to move.
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She says: That one is still alive.

The trolley machine answers: This human is beyond
recovery.
She screams: HE IS STILL ALIVE!
The trolley machine answers: The demise of this one
will be painless.
The trolley at her side says: The recommendation
already made must
She screams and runs away. She runs up off the
roadway and in between the nearest two domiciles. The area
here is darker, in shadow, but the ground under her running
feet has less litter. She thinks as she runs though numb in
another part of herself through rage and fear:
This surface is not so old.
Then it is out into the sunlight again as she gets beyond
the domiciles. She can hear the squawk of a metallic voice,
but it is growing fainter with each step she takes. The land is
tilting away here too, a little more steeply it seems. Also, the
amount of rubble under her feet is increasing again. In some
places she must in fact detour around piles of broken
masonry and degraded metal struts. Then there is a line of
low obstruction before her, which extends away on either
side. She is cautious negotiating this. First she steps from one
jagged lump of concrete to another uneven lump, testing her
footing with great care.
She knows instinctively that she cannot risk damaging
herself here.
Now there is a more solid structure under foot, but that
doesnt extend far. Then it is back to the uncertain jumbled
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piles of mortar. Traversing this is made more difficult by the

fact that the land is beginning to decline more sharply, so that
she is in danger of tipping forward if she misses her footing.
But she can concentrate. In fact it gives her pleasure to
do so, finding that part of her gathers itself, as it were, into a
kind of useful coherence as she pays attention to the
challenge that faces her. She thinks: this is called control. She
nods to herself: control is good.
Then it is out into an open area that stretches before her
to a ridge some distance away. The ground is even, the rubble
much lighter mostly small pebbles and grit that may well
have been blown here over a long period of time. The soil
itself is grey, completely dried out, a useless quality to it that
affects her. She thinks the word sterility, and thinks then of
something like an act of contraction, as though everything
has been subject to an inner force of recoil. She thinks this is
a surprisingly sophisticated thought to have about the world.
It doesnt actually mean very much to her. After all, she is
running freely, conscious now that she is going somewhere
with a task in hand. Also, she can have fantasies about flying,
which is about being utterly free like having the measure of
the universe.
She stops running, suddenly frightened. She looks
around. The dead terrain extends to the left and to the right of
her. Behind her, up the slope, she can see the tops of the
nearest domiciles. In front of her the land falls away out of
sight. She can see then that it rises again in the distance: what
seems like more of the dusty friable surface she stands on
here.
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The high spires shimmer on the far horizon. Three of

them, grouped together, very remote as she sees them now.
The Rim Spires.
Those words come just like that.
She remembers she is frightened. Remembering, she
realises that she is terrified, the familiar panic rising in her.
The panic both glues her to the ground and induces an
urgent need for violent movement. She must run but where
to run to? She looks around again. And as she does she finds
she is thinking about flying again. This time she feels she is
shooting straight up into the big blue sky. But as she rises
higher and higher, she also becomes smaller and smaller.
Yes, smaller and smaller. She sees that so clearly, getting
smaller yet moving up away from the earth at a tremendous
speed. So she stands there, stuck to the ground, yet becoming
a speck shooting away from where she stands. Then she sees
the truth:
She is becoming the universe.
She shivers hot and cold, her legs especially, goose
pimples and flushes flowing in sequence up and down her
thighs. The universe, she thinks. Then a mighty dart of
something like a genuine destructive fear floods her as she
thinks that she might somehow lose the universe.
And then there would be nothing.
She looks into the palm of her left hand. The universe
could be there: she could be the universe sitting in the centre
of her own palm. There is something wrong with this idea, a
dangerous split in her understanding, she becoming two
things where only one could exist.
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She falls to her knees, so frightened that she cries

freely, bawling like a child. How long she kneels there crying
her eyes out, she doesnt know. But the time comes when she
grows tired of the fear, tired of being both the universe and
herself. She quietens.
A stone is pressing into her right knee, painfully
pressing. She bends and retrieves it. The blood is very bright
on one rough edge. She lays the little piece of old mortar in
the palm of her left hand.
She is so happy. She hasnt lost the universe, after all.
She knows now what to do. She puts the little universe into
the bottom of the deep pocket in the front of the gown she
wears.
The universe will be safe there.
She clears her nose with a deep long snuffle,
swallowing the mucus. How well she feels now: clarified.
She looks around her, for the first time in a while able to look
at the world without experiencing acute terror.
The world is bathed in red light. The sun is low in the
sky over to the left. That is where the red light is coming
from. The sun is setting.
She finds she understands all this. It will become dark
when the sun goes behind the planet. There will be no light.
Then she will not be able to see.
She hears a buzzing sound somewhere above her. She
needs to search the big empty sky for some time the
buzzing growing louder all the while before she locates the
source. It is a little craft, dark with shadow in the weakening
sunlight, and it is approaching her, descending as it does so.
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Machines can fly. This realisation shocks her. Why it

should shock her is not clear; but it does shock her. Yet
within this shock she is also thinking.
This machine can find her.
She glances at her wrist.
992,734 red; -2.92 amber.
She knows there is a connection. The machine sends
her this information, so it must know at all times where she
is.
The word is in her head: run.
She looks around, the familiar panic mounting, she
thinking: Where, where?
The word now is: away.
Away from the machine world, from the roadways and
the domiciles.
She thinks: The machine must not be allowed to learn
that I have taken possession of the universe.
She runs away. It is downhill, the surface reasonably
clear, so she can move swiftly, a kind of leaping run, her feet
dancing among the stones and litter, arms out in balance. The
problem is that the slope is in shadow, shadow that is
deepening all the time as the sun sinks lower in the sky. But
she can do it, finding that her eyes grow sensitive to the
dusky light, the presence of shapes registering in her almost
as palpably as physical sensation. There is a kind of
exhilaration in this running. She knows this is because she is
being forced beyond herself in a way. Never would she run
so fast if danger did not threaten. Never a downhill flight like
this, so precipitous and dangerous.
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She runs and leaps as fast as she can, yet the buzzing
grows louder all the time at her back. A touch of the panic
returns. She veers off to the left in a burst of desperation, then
veers back right again just as impulsively. The darkness
before her is deep now, almost black towards the bottom of
the slope. She cannot run in the dark. The panic springs in her
again. She wants to stop running and look around, but her
legs keep moving, arms held high now in balance.
She screams out loud, just screams.
It helps, as though satisfying an urgent need in an
indirect way. The incline is levelling off anyway, what she
feels to be a narrow platform cut into the slope. There is a
large black shadow to her left, highlighted edges revealing
the presence of masonry. She turns abruptly and runs into the
shadow, hands forward in protection. She senses the wall
before she actually collides with it, so she can brace herself
for the shock. It is a shock nonetheless, the palms of both
hands striking the coarse surface brutally hard, her arms
jarred with the kind of implacable violence that makes her
whimper.
Even so, her eyes continue their search, finding as
though by attraction the deeper shadow that indicates an
opening in the wall. She discovers just in time that the
entrance-way in partially collapsed and so can duck her head
in time as she slips through.
Now it is black dark. The surface under her feet is firm
and clear. The air is cool, the odour part the acid tang of
mortar, and part another sweet-sour smell that is completely
165

unfamiliar to her. The slight sound she makes when a shoe

drags on a pebble indicates a confined space.
Should she move further? The dark intimidates her:
simply, she cannot see. Then she notices that her wrist is
dark. No transmission. A shot of release, then a dart of the
panic when she realises that she is free of the machine. She
wants to move. She wants light.
Then the word: wait. She sits down on the cool earth.
She will wait. In the black dark, the silence becomes terrific,
that is, the silence becomes a presence that at once stimulates
her and yet allows something familiar to her to abandon her.
She knows what is withdrawing itself from her: it is the
world. There is relief in this, like a long endured burden at
last removed, relief in one way, the loss of a comforting limit
in another.
Then there is a sound. What kind of sound is it? Not
machine sound not fixed. Like something dragging in an
imprecise way, as though the origin of the action she hears in
process is hidden, and that it is heading towards an uncertain
destination. She thinks this thought about the sound that she
is hearing, and at once she sees as though a light shines in a
darkness, a light with an unknown source shining out into a
void.
She finds she is holding her breath. The sound stuns
her: it is extraordinarily poignant. It is like the sound of a
failure that lasts perhaps an eternity. And yet she is delighted
to be hearing it: she has never heard the like before. Perhaps
she should be frightened of its strangeness, perhaps entering
panic again.
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But she is not.

She hears the sound again, closer this time: a
scrabbling sound, like sharp-tipped objects being drawn over
a very hard surface. Suddenly, she connects the sound with
the sweet-sour odour she had detected when she first entered
this place.
She screams hoarsely. The scrabbling sound intensifies
immediately. It is moving away with an obvious urgency. She
realises she has been listening to a living being. She jumps up
in panic, runs one way with outstretched arms until she hits
against a wall, then another way, doing this until she finds the
entrance. She bangs her forehead getting out into the open.
She is shuddering mightily, thinking over and over that
the thing she had heard was alive. She cannot cope with the
idea of a living creature. She knows that she and the other
humans are alive in the same way, but the idea of nonhuman life repels her.
It means that life is a very strange thing if it can be
shared with other beings, beings that are totally alien to
humans. It would mean that being alive is a truly frightening
thing, more like a contamination than a fit condition. She
feels as though suspended by this idea. She lets it run through
her mind for a while: projecting life as she understands it into
other beings, with other destinies, utterly unknowable to her.
The fear begins to ease, like how you feel when you
exhale a breath, so that nothing is left behind. The fear, she
realises, is false. There is no such a thing as non-human life.
The conviction that only humans can be alive, can possess
167

life-ness, is so strong that she can find no place for any other
consideration.
She draws a very deep breath, and discovers that her
eyes are tightly closed, that they have been closed like this
ever since she heard the sound in that dark place.
She opens her eyes. The sky is dark now. She sees this
immediately, but she is surprised to see also that the land
about here is etched in detail by a milky light. The narrow
platform on which she is standing is a sheet of glowing white
light, speckled with nodes of shadow of various sizes. Behind
her, she sees the outline of a structure, squared off like a
domicile, but collapsed at the farther end. And away in front
of her along the platform there is another structure, this too
intact in part, demolished in part. The slope she has
descended is also lit, the shadowy rubble here larger and
serving to break up the expanse of reflected light.
Above that, there is the sky. The sky is dark, black,
then she sees that it is speckled with spots of pulsating light.
Stars. She remembers now that the stars come out at night
and that they can provide a low illumination of the night
world.
The stars! She is startled, thinking with a rising
anxiety: Are the stars in the universe?
She gropes with feverish fingers in the pocket of the
gown until she finds the little chip of mortar. She lays it in
her left palm and studies it closely.
No. There are no stars there, only the earth and all that
it might contain. So she puts the stars into the universe,
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taking care that all the stars in the vault of heaven are
included.
She sighs, both relieved and happy. Oh, she knows that
everything is in the universe it could not be otherwise but
it is important that she includes all the details of this fact.
The universe must be true. Otherwise, it will all come
to nothing.
She very carefully replaces the piece of mortar in the
pocket of the gown. Then she looks around again, a feeling of
some justifiable satisfaction suffusing her.
Night is good, the starry light an unexpected comfort.
Silence, too then the familiar buzz-buzz can be heard,
drawing closer all the while.
She glances at her wrist:
986,674 red; -2.98 amber.
The first impulse is to run back to where she had
hidden previously. She remembers the scrabbling sound. She
shivers with revulsion. But hide she must. She sets off along
the platform towards the other structure. Then she thinks that
maybe there will be those sounds there as well.
Run! She sets off down the slope, her mind quickly
coming to concentrate on where she is placing her feet among
all the obstacles. She is loping down the slope as fast as she
can, but already she sees that ominous shadows crisscross the
slope, indicating some potentially serious obstructions ahead.
Sure enough, she has not gone far when she finds that ground
suddenly dip into a hollow. She stumbles badly here, frantic
to prevent herself going head over heels. The buzzing is loud
now, the flying machine as though right behind her. For an
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instant she is tempted to just stop and let the machine talk to
her. She glances at her wrist:
982,604 red; -3.09 amber.
The machine speaks with an amplified voice, coldly
mechanical in the dark:
The recommendation that has
She jumps forward, up a shallow slope, then scrambles
across some shadowy ground, feet so sensitive to every
variation in level. She finds herself on some kind of
embankment, deep shadow just in front below her, but a clear
surface beyond. She jumps high, legs up, right over the
shadowy area, hitting the ground heavily. She screams with
fright, but she manages to keep her balance and resume
running. Her legs are really going too fast now, arms windmilling to maintain a precarious balance. The ground is clear
at first, then a ragged shadow just ahead indicates some kind
of deep gash in the soil. She cannot avoid the hole, can only
run right up to its edge and jump.
This time she is not so lucky. She hits the ground with
both feet at once, then her left shoe catches on the edge of a
rock and she tips over. She might scream now with some
justice, but she doesnt: the situation is too serious. Her left
arm comes down against the broken surface of a lump of
masonry, then scrapes along the grit as she staggers forward.
She knows she is in danger. The impulse is to fight to stop
the forward momentum, but that is impossible. She must run
now faster than she has before.
She runs. There is a tremor radiating up from her left
foot that threatens to paralyse the whole leg. So she stumps
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forward, favouring her right leg, using the other leg merely as
a counter-balance. She manages to stumble along like this
until she gets her speed under control. Just as well there is
one of those traversing shadows ahead now, deep shadow
with unknown depths, then a steep slope up to another bank.
The pit of shadow is too wide to jump, so she will have to
work her way across it.
She checks her wrist:
981,864 red; -3.34 amber.
Even so, she slows her pace and studies the whole
structure before her. Not a lot of broken masonry, no random
rocks. She estimates an earthen bank of some kind, so the
area along the base of the bank in deep shadow will be
reasonable clear of obstruction.
She runs on into the shadow area, tense of course and
ready to leap, hop, anything at all if she hits against anything.
The area is clear. A moment of weirdness for her: head and
shoulders above the pool of shadow, her legs racing forward
with a reckless drive out of sight. Its like she is split in two:
the senses that provide her with most of her knowledge of
what she is actually doing utterly divorced from the
instruments of action she is using.
Now she comes up against the bank. She scrambles up,
hands grasping at indentations in the rough surface, her feet
scrabbling in a kind of bluff. But she gets to the top and
jumps down beyond almost without pause, landing with a
nimbleness surprising in the circumstances.
There is a blankness at her wrist. She steps back slowly
until she is up against this side of the bank. Not much shadow
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here but she feels sheltered. She can hear the flying machine
buzzing back and forth above the bank.
Machine cannot see.
She steps out into the starlight, looks up. The machine
is flying back and forth in a tight pattern, searching for the
signal. She is exultant. She shouts:
RUN LIKE THE WIND, FLY LIKE A BIRD!
She doesnt know what she is saying though she feels
really happy for being able to shout it but the flying
machine lets out what seems to be a mechanical squawk and
begins to flying in a tight circle a way over to her left.
She quickly checks her wrist, sees it blank, then walks
out into the middle of the clear area. Its a roadway, wider
than the ones she has walked above among the domiciles.
The surface was once extremely smooth but now there are
many little cracks running off in every direction. She finds
marks in different colours. Red lines run across the roadway,
while bright green lines run along what must have been the
traffic lines. There are marks in black. She traces them with
her feet, going up and down and around as she does. She
doesnt understand what she discovers, while knowing they
convey information in some way:
E37W
200
She also knows that the marks were to be read from her
right towards her left, that the traffic on this roadway
travelled that way, towards the side of the world where the
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sun sets. Does a roadway have a memory? She imagines a

large vehicle, bright red with yellow flashes on either side,
articulated in four sections so a very long train its wheels
recessed while it rides the highways magnetic field at high
speed. Only a hum from the huge machine as it passes, but an
uncomfortable scream of turbulent air in its wake. Its the
sound she imagines that broadens her awareness of the road
system as a whole: the noise is appalling, an incessant
screaming that peaks frequently with every passing vehicle.
She breaks the reverie abruptly. The world about her is
quiet. The flying machine has gone. She breathes deeply.
Being alone is such a strange sensation for her. She knows
she has spent much of her life utterly alone in reality, yet the
sensation now is different. Its like she is without limbs; that
she is a bubble blown about on stray winds.
She walks across the roadway and climbs the bank on
that side. She walks and yet she feels that she really doesnt
move at all. She stands on the bank and looks about. There is
the roadway she has just crossed, running right to left behind
her. There is another roadway exactly like the one behind
her and it runs past below her, the traffic, she assumes,
coming from the her left and heading into the city that once
stood over on the right.
All this traffic, the ceaseless uproar of the churning air,
the vehicles with their drivers and passengers hundreds,
then thousands of humans passing and absolutely nothing is
happening. She knows she can conceive of the whole world
of that epoch say about six hundred years ago the frantic
activity, the complex manifolds of the intentions, ambitions,
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reactions of billions of humans, and know with complete

conviction that nothing was happening then on that scale
either.
She walks along the bank for a while, the ground at her
feet swept clean at this exposed level, and asks:
What was happening then?
The answer surprises her, though it rises from within
herself, has the colour of her own thinking:
A child was sleeping.
Somewhere, a child slept; a child that had been born
and was then in the process of growing.
She shivers. Not one child very many children but
as though one child growing. Such a powerful being. It
twitches in its sleep and immediately the human race falls
into war or famine, confusion and destruction across the
planet.
Why, hello there.
One day the child will awaken.
A trolley machine sits in the middle of the roadway
below. She can see it clearly outlined in the starlight. She
screams, runs down the bank and collides as forcefully as she
can with it.
She has the satisfaction of seeing it topple over on its
side, one fat wheel spinning with a faint squeak.
The question now is: run or not, hide or not? The
machine is trying to say something, but only a series of clicks
are issuing from it. She goes around to what she judges to be
the front of the machine. She kicks it heartily.
Shut up!
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The kick seems to have corrected the fault in the

machine:
You must wait until Elex gets here. It pauses, then
speaks in another voice, more human. It will only take a
short while.
She checks her wrist: nothing. She asks:
Where is machine?
Machine is not here. Out of range. This is the
machine voice again, metallic with a thin vibration, as though
she has managed to cause it some real damage after all. She
kicks it again. It is hatred, a deep and abiding hatred. Yet she
doesnt hate this machine itself.
She walks away in the direction of the far side of the
roadway, marked by a low wall. As she walks, she thinks
this: The machine indicates a failure. It satisfies her to think
this, though she already knows that this is not true. It is not a
question of failure.
She steps up onto the wall. The drop down on the other
side is considerable. There is little shadow because the wall
drops sheer to the new level.
She jumps anyway. She hits the ground painfully, both
of her feet tingling so much with the shock that she staggers
and falls over.
She is thinking: there cannot be failure if you do not
know what you are doing. She knows there is a principle
here, something fundamental about how everything is
disposed.
Its like finding your way in the dark.
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The surface shes lying on now is curious: a very level

expanse of smooth stones of varying sizes, mostly on the
small side. The stones are very peaceful; she could lie here
for a long while. Perhaps, except that she finds that the cold
is penetrating her body fairly quickly. Its the type of conflict
that can irritate her. She wants to rest. Her legs are shaking,
part exhaustion, part shock still. There is a hollow in her
midriff, an unpleasant taste in her mouth: she is very hungry,
and thirsty it hurts even to open her mouth now. She
doesnt want to move at all, but the chill is working
remorselessly into her body. Ah, but she will rest anyway, a
kind of abandonment in this decision, giving way here a
welcome relief.
So she lies back and looks straight up at the dark sky
above. The stars are many and they glitter in the very clear
dark sky. She feels she could talk to them. She feels also that
they might well talk to her in turn. She wonders what they
would say. Actually, she knows what they would say
except she has not the words. It would be about finding
something.
Finding something?
Now there is a noise out there in the night world. At
first a low scream, then a low rumble. The scream grows
louder and the rumble seems to spread out until it fills the sky
with its trouble. Now the scream flattens to a guttural roar as
it comes closer and another high-pitched sound takes it place,
a piercing scraping sound. Then there is a loud slap so
intense that she feels its impact on her body. The big rumble
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is now lost in the harsh roar as the piercing scream reached a

crescendo.
Of course she is wild eyed with terror, flat on the
ground unable to move, but she can see nothing. The night
world is completely unperturbed while it sounds as if a
cataclysm is occurring. The stars remain utterly unmoved.
The scream is abruptly cut off. The roar is as though
being sucked away, a series of thumps in the earth instead,
each lower in tone.
There you have the World Circuit Number Two Train,
on time as always. It will surface beyond the shield in about
two hours time.
She is already rigid with fear and a growing
amazement how could such a commotion leave the world
unscathed? The voice is coming from behind her.
The machine is wonderful. How well it can estimate
the speed. Too fast and the pressure would destroy the train.
Too slow and well time would be awasting. You know, it
hits the tunnel at precisely three seven four one clicks. Thats
fast by any reckoning. In the old days, they went in at fifteen
hundred, no more.
She screams. It is a blind reaction to the presence of a
machine. The scream helps to galvanise her. She scrambles to
her feet and turns to face the wretched machine.
There is no machine. A very tall man stands a few
paces away. She notices only his long hair before her legs
give way, the exhaustion worse than she knows. Its a
genuine swoon, legs giving way, incipient nausea, the sense
of floating away. She thinks:
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The child stands with open hands.

The man catches her. She knows this, the bone of his
forearm pressing into the soft flesh above her waist,
increasing the nausea. Then his other arm is behind her
knees. He is lifting her up, free from the ground. The first
response is the intense fear she associates with going into
reality, that profound terror at the fact of surrendering all
control of self. But there is not the oblivion and the
reawakening. Instead, he looks down close into her face and
says:
Youre knackered. On the go all day, no doubt.
He hoists her up until she is lodged in the crook of his
arms against his chest. No re-awakening, only a continuation
into the swoon, her gorge pushing up so that she tastes bile.
Hang on now. Lets get Freddie straightened up.
He doesnt move easily with her weight, his feet
uncertain on the shifting pebbles. Shes at a loss at first, then
finds that she is clinging to him in such a way as to relieve
the pressure on her kidneys. His body is also warm through
the thin garment he wears. At the sheer wall he hoists her up
and lays her out on the top. She hates the separation the
chill re-entering her at once but he scrambles up the wall in
a jiffy and has taken her back into his arms before she can
decide what to do in reaction. In fact, the renewed contact of
their bodies fills her with an intense pleasure. She wraps her
free arm around his neck and pulls her body even closer to
his. He can cope with her frantic movements, but he says
anyway:
You really gave Freddie a going-over.
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She can hear his heart beat, strong, complex rhythms.

It pumps his blood throughout his body. She extricates her
other arm and pushes it between his arm and his body. He is
not so big though tall that she cannot wrap her two arms
about his torso. Where her breasts press against him seems to
pulse. She whimpers and presses her face into the soft flesh
of his neck.
He has finally acknowledged what is happening. His
releases his arm from under her thighs, so that her body
swings down against his, and wraps his arms low around her
body. He staggers with the force of the arousal, sinks to his
knees, giving way to her weight as though this allows an even
closer merger between the two.
She falls with him and crumples as her feet hit the
ground, sinking against him until she finds she is astraddle
his erect penis. The heat from it even through both their
garments intervene stuns her and sends her into a paroxysm
as she rubs herself against it, her pelvis jerking back and forth
with a life of its own.
They both moan now, she with her mouth open against
his neck again, indifferent to the pain this is creating in her
throat. He is holding her very tightly against him, eyes
closed, a curious jumpiness in his body, as though not
knowing what to do next. The issue is decided when she
finally loses her balance against him, her tired legs no longer
able to support the vigorous motion against his penis. She
falls sideway, clutching him tightly, and he compensates with
a counter-fall in the opposite direction. It fails. He falls
backwards, painful pressure building behind his knees, and
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she falls over on top of him. They roll on the ground, first one
way, then the other, as he struggles to straighten his legs, and
she grows frantic again because she can no longer rub herself
against him. They both know what to do then. He pulls his
gown up and she pulls her gown up. Then she sits down on
his penis, lays her opens hands flat on his chest, and presses
down on him until the pain begins inside her.
This pain is acute, perhaps even a dangerous pressure
inside her, but she will not relent, pressing her expanded
vagina down as hard as she can around his penis. The pain is
what she wants. It causes her to cry out. She wants
desperately to start something, though she has no idea what.
Her weight on him constrains his movements, so that
the tremendous pulsations that pass through him work back
into him. They cause him to gasp and finally to cough, a
feeling as of strangulation in his throat. He grows desperate
as he nears his climax and begins to push her back from him.
She fights this, pushing roughly with her arms while sitting
down repeatedly on his penis. But his strength is greater. He
grasps her waist with his large hands and strains to lift her up.
It works just in time, for his ejaculation is very forceful in
its initial thrusts.
They scream in unison, part passion, part severe pain.
It works for her. Something in her is as though opened.
She sees the man of stone, the man of what she is told is
gesture.
Gesture.

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He says after a moment while he regains his breath:

Freddie. A faint crackle of static in reply and he shouts,
rolling her off him meanwhile:
Report, Freddie. Report!
He hobbles over to the overturned trolley, shouting
again: What did you do to it?
She is sitting up now, the gritty surface cutting into her
skin, gagging a little on the dull ache in the middle of her.
Her thirst is intense, her throat on fire.
He grasps the lower side of the trolley and heaves
mightily, his breath whistling with the effort. When he has
the machine raised sufficiently far, he gets his shoulder under
it and uses his weight to right it. Fighting to get his breath, he
shouts:
Report, Freddie!
Another rattle of static. He turns and shouts at her:
What did you do? Did you kick it?
She has managed to get around on to her hands and
knees, letting her head hang down to get some relief from the
various discomforts. She finds she is thinking about gesture,
the sense that all activity can be reduced to the status of a
single gesture like an attempt to attract attention.
Thus the man of stone, frozen in a single unique pose.
The machine has extended its screen and is showing
the man a simple diagram, one part of which is flashing red.
He shouts, shaken after the sudden passion, an habitual
anxiety surfacing:
Is it the capacitors again?
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He turns to her again. Though he is obviously agitated,

his face appears very reposed, deep shadows around his eyes
in the weak light. He shouts:
The tools are at the home. We will have to go there.
He lays a comforting hand on the machine. Go to the
home, Freddie. The machine starts and then stalls, a rattling
noise near one of its wheels. The man bends and extricates a
long sliver of metal from the housing above the wheel. He
lays it out on the couch of the machine. The machine starts
again and this time it trundles forward. The man follows
closely behind, his hand hovering close to the side-rail of the
machine.
She is still on her hands and knees, completely
exhausted, but still thinking about the gesture: how it has
been fixed from the beginning. She is consumed by this
knowledge, for the moment completely oblivious to her
physical condition. She can recognise that if the gesture has
been frozen from the very start, then life and death cannot
mean very much.
He shouts at her, almost invisible already in the gloom:
Arent you coming? She makes no response. He walks back
to where she is crouched and repeats:
Arent you coming?
Life and death are like jumping up and then dropping
down, jumping up and dropping down over and over, up and
down, up and down until
She looks up. His face is completely shadowed by his
hanging hair, the milky light falling only on the tip of his
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nose and the swell of his lips. He touches her forehead

because she seems not to be aware of him and elaborates:
Were going to the home. There is food and water and
you can rest there.
She opens her mouth and croaks something, ducking
her head immediately afterwards as she tries to cope with the
pain in her throat.
He calls the machine back and then takes her up in his
arms again. He feels her shiver, her skin cold where it
touches his. The machine comes trundling over and he lays
her out on the couch. She tries to resist, but he presses her
down, hands on her limbs in succession until she quietens.
She is thinking: something happens during all the
jumping up and down of life and death. She thinks of this
something, then she sees this:
A rod extending up, a bulb developing at its tip, the
bulb expanding so that long wide strips flow out to radiate in
a circle.
The trolleys motion under her weight is not smooth.
The machine extends its tentacle arms and coils them around
her body to keep it from rolling off the couch.
She panics, trying to scream, pulling angrily at the
smooth metal casing of the arms. The machine stops moving
and releases the tentacles. This is not enough for her, though.
She strikes the surface of the couch repeatedly with her fists
and heels, the panic in full possession of her. She is
screaming but no sound can come from her throat.

183

He takes her up into his arms again, holding her firmly

in against his chest until she quietens. He says to reassure
her:
I will carry you to the home, Sophie. Rest now.
She is thinking: I know what that is. I know what it is.
He begins walking, hurrying with long steps, until he
achieves an earnest lope. She rocks about in his arms,
nestling in to him in silence, her big eyes wide open on
nothing at all. He says breathlessly:
I am Panelexorigo, but you can call me Elex. You
may wonder how I know your name. My sister, Stella thats
Estrellapollia told me. She met you from the train, if you
remember. Weve been expecting you for some time now,
though it wasnt clear how you would make the crossing.
She is looking at the rod with the splayed strips. It
seems to be made of a shining, glistening metal.
But we wonder at the opposition of the machine. We
do not transgress its Charter. Strictly, what we are doing
should not concern it.
The growing heat of his body as he runs begins to
affect her. It is like a sinking down this time most likely a
sign of growing familiarity as though some warm thing in
her breast lets itself down deeper into her body. She presses
her face into the soft flesh above his armpit, trying vainly at
the same time to wrap her free arm around his neck. But as
before she cannot easily reach. So she turns in his arms and
now reaches her hand up behind his head, going in under his
hair. The contact of her breasts with his chest is again too
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much. She moans loudly and struggling mightily to swing her

whole body around so that it is pressed against his.
He is saying: This has been attempted so many times
before, as you know. We
He falls to the ground, his knees just buckling under
him. The passion is as great as before, both unconcerned by
the heavy fall, she scrabbling under his gown for his sex,
while he threshes about already in a paroxysm. It is intense
and as vigorous as exhaustion will allow. Afterwards he
continues:
You know as well as I do that this is a matter for the
humans alone. We found that the machine has no
understanding of what is involved.
She is coughing now, a painful wracking cough that
sets her whole body into a shudder. She can do little more
than lift herself off the ground with her elbows.
He says: We should continue to the home now.
He calls for the machine but there is no answer. Gone
on to the home, he says absently. He gets to his feet and
stand there for a while, swaying, his hands to his head. Then
he takes her up into his arms again. He walks this time,
though, with long rapid strides, holding her in such a way that
she lies out against his forearms.
Does it matter? She has fallen into a swoon again:
exhaustion, overwhelming pain and discomfort, perhaps a
deeper separation induced by the arousals. Yet she is aware
that a question is looming for her, significant in a way she
does not understand. The question arises when let:
Is he in the universe?
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The answer she knows is no, he is not in the universe.

That is not the problem, nor is the question of how she
already knows this that he is not in the universe when she
has not had time to consider it. No, the problem is this: how
can she tune that is the word she has for the action to him
if he is not in the universe? It is a remarkable complex
problem, that raises a number of disturbing issues. First, she
can tune to him even though he is not in the universe. In fact,
she is in the process of tuning to him again.
Her body is rocking slightly in his arms as he marches
along, so that her breast repeatedly flattens against his hand.
The arousal is as intense and as sudden as previously, except
this time she cannot physically react, being in a faint. Yet the
arousal works in her, first in her chest around the excited
breast, then lower down in her body, spreading like a fire
from there out into her limbs.
She wants to act she needs to act to relieve the
pressure building in her but she cannot move. It is a very
strange state. She can see that a ghost part of her acts, arms
reaching out, legs enfolding, her vulva opening like a hungry
mouth. Yes, she catches that: hunger. Like a straining
forward without end, expectation long dulled, achievement
long deferred.
She thinks: what is absent?
So long absent.
He says, breathless because of the exertion: Why is
there no stopping? That is what they ask us. Have you heard
them say that? When nothing no longer seems possible, I
mean. If we tell them, they say we hope in vain. But we say it
186

is not a hope. We tell them that though there can be failure,

there cannot be an ending. That is not possible, ever. And
then they say, what when we are all finally gone. When the
last man and the last woman has died? They point to the
records. Once there were more than ten billion humans in
existence at one time, all at one time. That was long ago.
Now we are only fifty million in numbers, and most of them
are clones. They project that in one hundred years time there
will be no more clones they will have died out and only
five million humans, all of them artificials. Then human
destiny will be at an end.
She is crying, though there are no tears, no sobbing.
Absence is like something not coming when expected,
when promised. Does she believe this? Of course not. She
knows the truth.
She knows the truth: expectation hides nothing.
She knows she should not be crying. She knows she
should not be desiring.
He says: Well be there soon, and then I can take good
care of you.
He tilts his forearms up, so that her body rolls back
towards him. He presses her to his chest. Her eyes are vacant,
as ever, staring out at nothing at all. She looks dead, but he
can feel her pulse against one of his arms.
She is thinking the truth: Desire puts the past in place
of the future, of what is coming. She thinks the word memory
and for the merest instant glimpses another truth that truly
frightens her.
187

He says: I know there is a greater truth that is kept

hidden from us. Stella believes she knows what it is, but I am
not so sure. Will anything become of us the human race, I
mean? What do we do now? We ruled this world once, as you
know.
She is resting now, knowing she has reached her limit.
At last.
He stops walking. It is very dark here, not many stars
visible. He calls:
Freddie?
There is a crackle of static. He calls again:
Open the home, Freddie.
Though the light is weak, it is still strong enough to
blind him momentarily. Even she blinks rapidly. He carries
her over the threshold into a long room with a low ceiling. He
lays her on a raised surface and says, confident that she can
hear him:
I will get you water. Its what you need most.
He goes away down the room, calling back as he goes:
I will get you heated water. That is best for extreme
conditions it causes the least pain.
But he cannot get her to drink the water. Oh, he
dribbles some onto her lips, letting it run across her face in all
directions, but she does not react in any way, her eyes still
staring fixedly at the ceiling. So he drinks off the remainder
of the water himself, gulping urgently in his own thirst. Then
he takes her up again into his arms and carries her to the
hygiene chamber where he can lay her out under jets of warm
water.
188

He stands watching patiently for some sign of life in

her. She lies at his feet, soaking gown clinging to her small
body, her thin arms and legs sprawled loosely in the rising
tide of water. It is some time before she first moves, a huge
tremor that runs the length of her body from head to foot.
And it is some time again beyond that before she blinks her
eyes and shakes her head, every gesture indicating that it is
done reluctantly. When she does finally turn to look at him,
there is absolutely no recognition in her eyes.
He says: I have brought you to the home so that you
can recover.
She shakes her head warily. She makes repeated efforts
to roll onto her side away from him. When she succeeds, she
tries to get to her feet. On her knees for a few seconds, she
then slumps down into the pool of water that has gathered
about her.
He springs to lift her head out of the water and turn it
so that she can breathe freely. He says:
You are completely exhausted. It will take time for
you to recover. Be patient.
He gathers her up from the pool and carries her back
into the main room. Already the air here is warm. He lays her
on the couch again. He says:
I must undress you. I will respect your modesty. Then
you can be dried and allowed to rest.
She tries to fight him when he begins to roll the wet
gown up her body, but he is firm with her now, pushing her
waving arms away with little effort. To dry her, he wraps her
in a large cloth and then rubs her all over, working
189

methodically from her feet up to her head, finally drying her

hair with a really vigorous effort. He does this not only to dry
her quickly, but also to stimulate the circulation in her body
and so accelerate the process of heating her up.
He is breathless by the time he has finished, his
dangling hair wet.
She is looking at him. He finds that he recoils under
the shaft of her gaze. He says, stammering:
I know I am only a child compared with you, I
mean. We were raised in a desert with only ancient archives
for instruction. I have no understanding of what it is you do. I
have no understanding of the extent of your suffering.
He kneels down by the couch in order to be closer to
her. Still her stare burns into him, her small round face
otherwise utterly featureless.
But I promise I will serve you as best I can.
She blinks. She says:
I am thirsty. I am hungry.
He leaps to his feet and runs off down the room. There
is a lot of commotion, dull thuds of heavily protected
surfaces, a high pitched whine for a minute or two. He returns
with a large, two handled flask with a small spout. He says,
kneeling down beside her again and carefully placing the
flask in her grasp:
Drink slowly, my dear. Otherwise you will get
convulsions.
She drinks avidly, but slowly as instructed. The water
is barely warm, yet is feels like molten metal rolling down
190

her gullet. When she has finished, he takes the flask and asks
brightly, obviously expecting some kind of reward:
There. Is that better?
She says, once she has belched off some wind:
I am hungry too.
He smiles. For the first time he makes an attempt to
draw the bangs of hair off his face: he shakes his head
vigorously. The long hanks of hair fly up about him and then
settle back around his face. He uses his left hand to push the
hair back over his shoulders. His face is very puffy in the
white light, pitted with shadow. He gets to his feet.
I have prepared food for you.
The food comes in another two handled flask, steam
rising, an indeterminate odour going before it.
This is a very nutritious food, Sophie. It will help you
recover your strength.
It is a thick stew, ochre coloured, extremely smooth
and hot. He watches her drink this off slowly, her throat
gagging repeatedly as she scoffs the whole lot as quickly as
she can. She wipes her mouth slowly afterwards, releasing
the empty flask when he goes to take it from her.
He places the flask on the ground and then uses both
his hands to gently force her down onto her back. He takes
another cloth from a compartment in the wall of the room
and, pulling the damp wrap off her, lays the new cloth over
her body, drawing it right up to her mouth. When she brings
her hand up to rub her face, he pulls it back and pushes it
down under the cover. He then rubs her face all over with his
191

own two hands, stroking her brows repeatedly until he feels

her finally relax on the couch.
He says: Sleep now, Sophie. Tomorrow you can
continue on your journey.
She stares up at him, blinking frequently, until she
says:
You are not in the universe, are you?
He returns her stare.
I dont understand you.
She searches about under the cover.
Where is the gown?
He rushes off to get it. She searches around in the
pocket of the gown until she finds the crumb of masonry. She
holds it up to her eye, then says:
No. You are not in the universe.
He shakes his head, completely confused: I am here.
This is the universe.
She shakes her head, as though mimicking him.
No. You cannot be in the universe. You do not fit.
He is stricken. He doesnt know what she is talking
about, but he nonetheless feels he has been judged in some
absolute way. All he can say is:
But I am here, Sophie.
It could be some ingredient in the food she has just
consumed, but she suddenly looks much brighter and more
alert. Her eyes are very clear, the whites brilliant, flashing as
she blinks. She says, completely reasonable in tone:
But this is not the universe.
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It is as though she has said the wrong thing

completely wrong. He stares at her, aghast, for the moment
without words such is his disappointment in her. He
swallows repeatedly, as though something is stuck in his
throat. He finally says in a low voice, hoarse because his
throat is now dry with tension:
That cannot be true. He bends closer to her face.
Have you lost the way, Sophie?
This last statement acts like a trigger for her. She
recognises the possibility of what he has said. She thinks:
I am lost.
There is a moment of shock as she allows this to be
true. Then a voice seems to say to her, speaking inside her
head:
Not remembering where you have come from is not
what is meant.
She thinks immediately:
Not knowing where I am going is not the same, either.
She says to him:
I am afraid.
He sobs out loud upon hearing this confession. He
bends forward and places his cheek against hers. Tears trickle
from his eyes. He whispers to her with total conviction:
I will protect you from all harm, my dear Sophie.
Now she realises that this is not true: she is not afraid.
She is stricken with something like a kind of terror, a sense of
utter and unavoidable exposure. But it is not fear. She thinks:
if I am destroyed completely with no trace remaining, then
that will be as it should be.
193

She says to him, speaking in a low, level tone:

You cannot.
He goes completely still. Its obvious that he must
think before he speaks again. He draws away from her and
sits back on his heels, so that his head is now on a level with
hers. She has turned her head to watch him with unblinking
eyes. She sees something in him.
She says quietly: After the Restoration, you will be in
the same position. All of you will be.
He is startled: Is it real? Truly real?
She is looking around her, asking: Which way do I go
now?
He gets to his feet. He wants to walk up and down, but
is afraid to leave her.
Stella said that you have tried to enact the Restoration
many times, Sophie.
She is getting agitated. She shoves the cover off her
body and forces herself onto her side. She pushes violently
then and rolls off the couch. The collision with the concrete
ground is hard, first her shoulder, then hip and then her head,
which bounces like a ball.
He screams and runs around the couch. He grabs her
and hoists her back onto the couch. He holds her down while
he lays the cover over her again.
You must rest, Sophie. You must learn to trust me. I
mean you no harm. Look. There are no machines in here, are
there? Machines cannot enter this home, that is a condition of
the relation between natals and the machine. He bends close
194

to her face, suddenly vehement. Now, rest. Sleep if you can.

There are some hours yet before dawn.
She is stunned, her eyes flickering from side to side
involuntarily. She tries screaming, but only a ragged squeal
issues from her mouth. He is distracted by her agitation, both
frightened and irritated by her behaviour. He shouts into her
face:
Please, Sophie, will you be quiet!
The shouting attracts her attention. She looks at him
searchingly, as though trying to remember who he is, then
says plaintively:
I am thirsty.
He runs off immediately and fills the flask with warm
water. This time, she sits up on the couch to drink it off. She
looks visibly revived afterwards. He says, pleading now:
Will you try to sleep?
She looks around her.
Is this the domicile?
He shakes his head. Gently, he forces her to lie down
again and draws the cover over her body.
Close your eyes, Sophie.
She remains staring at the ceiling, not moving
otherwise. He repeats, trying to remain gentle in tone:
Close your eyes, my dear. Try to sleep now.
She coughs once then says:
Every man will be restored. She looks at him
intently: All must be restored, dont ever forget that, no
matter what happens.
195

She closes her eyes. Sleep comes like something she

had forgotten about, but which had not forgotten her

196

I am awake!
Jesus, whats the big deal? It happens every morning.
Well, nearly every morning. Heh. Sure. Sometimes I do that.
Wake up suddenly. Like waking up is not the best thing to
do.
What time is it?
Youre not to talk to yourself, remember? Okay, okay.
Seven thirty. Nearly seven thirty. Sure, too early. Go to
bed too early. Dont like staying up late. Gets sort of
pointless. I mean, like youre really on your own. No. I dont
like the night, sort of empty. Night was made for sleep. Oh
yeah. Wherever that is. Dreamland. Dreams? Hey, I didnt
dream last night, did I? Cant remember. Sometimes I know
Ive dreamed though I cant remember anything. No. Didnt
dream. Definitely not. So maybe thats why.
Come on, move yourself, Joe. Okay okay.
So, where do you go in sleep? I mean, if its such a tear
waking up?
Jesus. Really get sick of this place. Same fucking
thing every day. Well, its nearly over. Sure. Well, have to
think about it, knucklehead. Got to get that organised. Yeah
yeah. Like Ill do it today. Oh yeah, do it today. Like open
the door and go out again. Say hi to everyone.
Hi!
Count the money. Hey, yeah, do that. Count out all that
dosh. Check it again. Okay, two hundred grand at say five per
for say one hundred fifty. That gets me. Oh shit. I still cant
handle this. Over three hundred million dollars. Fuck. Did
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they know this? Sure, theyre smart guys. They knew what
they were setting up.
I mean, I can go through that door and just walk into a
bank and say hi Im Joe Jarpinski, the time capsule man. Hey,
say it.
Hi, friend. Im Joe Jarpinski. Remember? Im the
Time Capsule Man. Slo-time Joe? Yeah, Ive been locked
away in that capsule, or whatever the fuck they call it now.
Yeah. Thats me. Heh. Like I want to check my bank
account. Get the balance, you know.
And the guy. Hey maybe a chick. Yeah. A chick. A
real pretty clerk. Little tits and long fingernails. Yeah. And
shell, like, check her screen and then
Oh fuck. I cant handle this. I mean, thats a lot of
money. Whatll I do? Ill go fucking crazy! Sure theyll have
guys to advise me. Therell be accountants. And lawyers. Oh
yeah, therell be lawyers too. And theyll say I should do this
and do that. Invest the money. Buy the basics. Get a house
somewhere nice. A car. And
Jesus. Im shaking. Too much too much. Ive really
got to get myself together on this. Come on. Just get on it.
Remember who you are. Youve been through college. Man,
youre a fucking engineer! Okay okay. Thing to do. Yep.
Have some coffee.
Huh, enough coffee for another two weeks. Yay.
Getting to that time, old buddy. Once the coffee runs out, you
know. And look at the beer reserves. Ten days. At average
rate of consumption. Bread. Three weeks. Cereals? Eleven
days.
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Jesus, got to start sorting this out.

Hungry? Naw. Man, Im scared! Need to talk to
someone about this. I mean, just walk through that door?
Yeah. Thats all. Just press that button that says OPEN and
the door or airlock or whatever will slide open. And you just
walk on through. You know, say hi to the security guard or
whoever. Hell get on the phone to his boss. Maybe they
trained him for this moment. You know. Just say hi and help
you pass the time till they get there. If he asks, just tell him
everything is fine.
No, I am hungry. Put some rolls in the microwave.
How many? How many do I want? Hot rolls. Honey. Hey, a
whole lot! Heh. Say two today. That way they last for what?
Over four weeks.
Will everything be fine? I mean, what if the economy
is fucked. Stuff like that. Maybe therell be a king. King of
America. A Bush or Kennedy dynasty? What if the place is
run by shit fascists? I wouldnt last long there. Fucking
uniforms everywhere. Guys watching everything you do.
Cameras in every room.
Have some cereal. Milk? Twelve days. Sugar? Heh.
Six days.
What year will it be? Today is. March twenty five.
Two thousand fourteen. Well, it would be if I had not come
in here. Okay okay. OKAY.
Shit.
Stop swearing out loud. Thats a bad habit to get.

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Jesus, how will I hack it with these people. Ive gone

slack here. Rambling in my head all the time. Got to get it
together again. Need to sharpen up.
But what year will it be? They said a max of one year
would mean about a century and a half. So thats two one six
four. Say twenty one fifty. Jesus. A lot could change in a
century and a half. Look, just count back one hundred and
fifty years from twenty fourteen. That gets us eighteen sixty
four. What was that like then?
The Civil War? The fucking Civil War? Jesus, no
kidding? Horses pulling those guns. No cars or trucks. No
electricity? Wow, no electricity! Okay okay. Maybe trains.
Sure. But no airplanes. No music. No games. No net.
Jesus, how did they manage?
Hard to think about that.
More coffee with the rolls? More coffee means the
sooner I leave here. Okay. Lets look at this. Just cut the shit
on this. Say we go out today? I mean, just go out that door
and say Hi and move on to the next stage of my life? I mean,
just do it.
But Im not ready.
Dont whine!
Youre never going to be ready. I mean, you dont
know whats out there. Look, one hundred fifty years ago
there were no cars or planes. No electricity, no computers. So
what is it going to be like today, a hundred and fifty years
into the future? Hey, there could be space travel! Maybe I
could fly to the Moon, maybe Mars. Maybe they can fly to
the stars. Jesus, Im rich enough to go anywhere I want!
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Hey, I want a piece of this!

Hey hey hey.
What else then, what else? Cars. How fast are the cars?
Maybe they can fly, too. Come on, lets go lets go.
Hey, finish your breakfast, chump. Itll all be still there
in an hours time.
Okay, what about more coffee? Going to be a busy day
today. Coffee it is. So. Thing to do is check out the scene.
Look it over, like. Then cool it for a few days. Say in a fancy
hotel somewhere sunny and bright.
Back here.
Huh? Jesus, not back here. No way. Look at it. Have
you ever seen anything so shitty? Cheap suburban junk. Look
how that chair went that night. I mean, I only hit against it.
Heh. Sure, you were out of your head that time. Took you a
week to remember where you were.
No. No. I knew. That was a blowout for Christmas. Oh
Jesus. Will I be glad to get out of here. Anything is better
than this. Thats why they offered so much money. No one
would do it otherwise. But why me? Two thousand guys
wanted to do it. Detached, thats why. Youre a fucking pixie,
Joe. Thats why they gave you this job. Nothing is real for
you. You wouldnt know it if you went nuts.
Jesus.
Yeah, makes sense. I could be raving mad now, who
can tell? Am I? No, I could tell. Like that time with the
mescaline. Fucking terrified. Ended up crying for mama. No,
that wasnt mad. As in crazy. That was crazy with fear. Hey,
that is mad. No. Oh no, its not. Loss of reason. Like Jennifer.
201

Trying to eat herself. Why did she do that if she wasnt crazy
crazy. Remember how she was? I mean, she was suffering!
Okay okay. Maybe too much coffee. Maybe too much
pressure. Gotta go out, all the same. Sometime between now
and ten fifteen days time. Okay. Back to this. So, I just open
that door and say hi to everyone out there, then just go doggo
until I see what way things are? Thats it? Okay. What if its
shitsville? So its shitsville. What do you call this dump?
Jesus. Say its just dandy. Yeah. Look, you wont know what
the score is until to go out there and find out.
Right?
Right. So.
Yeah. Okay. Just go to the door and press the pad that
says OPEN. Right. No, hold on. How do I look? Huh? I
mean, when did I last look in a mirror? When did I last
shave? Jesus, you havent showered for a week, man.
Okay, so a general spruce up, yep? So, one, take a
shower. Now.
Wish I had something. Ease the pressure. A little
maryjane maybe. Coke? Whoa. I mean, I fly on that stuff.
Fly. Go out there like that and Id be a prize bullshitter. I
know it. Like I owned the place. Hey, maybe I do! Heh. No.
No, something mellow. Sure, just a toke would do the trick.
Make me sweet. Make everyone sweet. Hey, thats be nice,
really nice. Just saying How you doin to everyone.
Okay. Cant see in that mirror. Hair will need cutting.
What? A number two, maybe. Wait. What will be the style
out there? Long hair? Short hair? None at all? Okay, the way
to approach this is, how do I want to appear to them? Like
202

how straight am I, really? Use the other mirror. Now, then.

Jesus! Im a fucking wreck. Oh fuck! Look like that hippy we
picked up outside Salem that time. Jesus, he was totally out
of it. You could see the lice in his hair.
Hey. Hey, come on. Its not that bad. Some exercise,
regular sleep, a little stimulation and Ill be fine. Just have
one chick give me the eye. Hey, what about that? I have so
much money. Wont be a problem making the chicks.
Okay then. What about this? Cant go out there looking
like Robinson Crusoe. Okay okay. Lets start with the easy
bits. Want to look clean. Want to look like Im on it. Yeah.
Sure. No beard. Thats it, no beard, to start with. Hairs too
long, way too long. Look how straggly its got. Cut it back.
But not a number two, okay. Just cut it back short with the
big scissors. Get it cut properly later on. Thats it.
Okay. You wont do it, you know. Never could get
easy with women. Just make out and walk away. Youre a
clinger, Joe. Always were. Even mom said you were needy.
Fuck. Thats not cut straight across. Trim it.
No. Its like theyre magnets. I just stick to one if she
gets too close. Okay. Carol said you were immature. Oh no.
No. Not that one. She was a pusher. Remember what
Veronica said. Good old Nicky. Hey yeah! She said, what
was it? Oh yeah.
Theres not enough time for you, Joe.
I so understood that. I really understood what she was
telling me.
Thatll do. Looks tidy enough. Now shave. Then.
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We never had sex. Used to lie together for hours, doing

nothing, saying nothing. Never liked her body. Always a faint
odour. We just drifted apart. I was afraid of something about
her. It was like she was asleep and I made sure never to
waken her.
Hey. Looking better already. Get some new gear out.
Fawn chinos. Red shirt. Dark red that one. Jacket? Not sure.
Okay then. Nicks, socks. Trainers. No. Leather.
Fuck, they dont fit! Jesus. Im pudgy. Check them.
Naw, eight, as always. Gone soft. Jesus, I really really hate
that. How the fuck did I let this happen? Just laying about
watching movies. Drinking beer. Getting fat and soft. Man,
you could run ten miles once, no problem.
Fuck this!
Wear the shirt outside. Yeah, look a real fatty then.
What else? Okay. Nothing else. First thing: get in shape.
Remember that!
What now? Thats a real downer, man. Letting yourself
go like that. Only a year in the fucking place. And theres a
gym in the back. They told you how to exercise. Twenty
times round the yard is a mile. Remember, sack potato?
Oh fuck it, lets have some more coffee. Get it sorted
out pronto, dont worry. Okay okay.
Coffee, then.
Hey, dont waddle, fatso.
Shut up! Shut the fuck up. Itll be okay, now just leave
it. Just leave it. Now. Coffee, then out the door. Ready for it
now. Heh. Sure am. Ready for anything now.
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Glad to get out of this shithole. Anything they offer

will be better than this. I wont be coming back here nohow.
So, the line is Howdydoody and wait and see? Yep.
And check the balance. Hey, yeah. Check the fucking
balance. Ill go wild. I know I will. Just like the old man.
Yep, just like the old man himself. Jesus. Wins the lottery
and blows most of it in a year, wrecks everything. Mom said
she ran with us after a month. Saw it coming even then.
Seeing him that time downtown sitting on a stoop with that
old hooker.
No. I wont do that. Im like mom. Im not hungry the
way he was. Mom wasnt hungry. She could live tight and it
didnt bother her. Kept the money for our education. Right to
the end she did that.
Yep. Thats the difference. Youre either hungry or
youre not. If youre hungry then you want everything, never
satisfied. If youre not, then you can make do with what
comes your way. Thats what mom used to say.
Is that true? Find out soon, yep?
Okay then. Anything else? Anything else? Think,
beanhead, before its too late. List everything. Hey Im
hyped. Too much coffee. Okay okay. What is there? Im
dressed and all set to go. I say Hi, and they say Hi. And then.
Tests? Ah, tests. Jesus, how long will that take.
What tests? Im no guinea pig. Its the capsule theyre
testing, not me. I can just walk away and let them get on with
it.
So. Here we are. Just press that little button. OPEN.
205

Hey. Now hold on. Why have I not heard from them
before now? They said there were supplies for up to a year.
They said they thought it wouldnt take that long. So why
havent they switched it off from their side before now? I
mean everything is running out. Would they have let it run on
this long?
Jesus. Do I want to think about this? I cant stay here,
whatever happens. No. Come away from the door. Dont hit
that button yet. Now, think. What kind of situation is it? I
mean, its only a year since. Not too much can have
happened.
Disease. Huh? A plague, something like that. Wiped
them all out. Am I the last man on earth? Hey, come off it!
Why do you always think the worst, the absolute worst.
Maybe theres a simple reason. Like what? Cant open the
door. Jammed? Youre kidding.
Jesus, just try it. Thats all. Its either okay or its not.
Youve got to try anyway, sooner or later.
Yeah. God, but this places a dump. How did I stick it?
Didnt know any better. No, I didnt. Always looking forward
to getting out and getting the money.
Yep, thats about it. And now? And now. Who knows?
Okay, lets go. Just press that button and see what
happens.
Press it!
Okay okay. Sweet Jesus help me here.
Hey! Something works! Stand back. Funny smell.
What is it? Not dangerous. Like mould of some kind. Well,
its been shut up for Hey, thats not true.
206

Okay, take a look. Jesus, what is that? What do you

think? Its a fucking notice board! I go a hundred fifty years
into the future and what do I find?
A fucking notice board.
Doctor Jarpinski, please read this notice carefully
before you do anything else. Fuck me. A problem has arisen
which prevents us from accessing the TCU at the moment. It
is hoped that this problem can be resolved very quickly. In
the meantime, we ask that you remain secure in the Capsule
until that time. For your comfort and convenience we are
providing some additions to your stores. Please be assured
that we are doing everything within our powers to correct
this situation and so allow you to come out of the TCU.
Signed Colonel Alvin Meyerbeer, Officer Commanding,
TTCC, Backdon, New Mexico, June second twenty thirteen.
Fuck, I need a coffee. This I have to think about. A
problem. That was last June and still they have not fixed it.
What? Not last year, you dope. A hundred and fifty years
ago!
Jesus, Im fucked. Thats it. They fucked up.
God, I need a drink after that.
No. No drink. Got to keep my head here. Theres no
one else. If I lose it, then thats it. Coffee? Sure.
Okay, whats the situation? Im trapped in here until
they get the problem fixed. What kind of problem. Well, for a
start, they were able to construct an annexe to the capsule.
And it functions okay. So no problem with getting in or out
of the capsule. So what is it? Maybe something wrong with
207

the time shift itself? Maybe they cant get me back out of this
time shift or whatever.
No. They got those animals back no problem. I mean,
thats why they went ahead with this test. So what is it?
I dont know. I just dont know.
Okay. Im hungry again. Still a couple of those rolls.
Yep, theyll do.
So the situation is? Still here. And theres extra food
and things. So then, scan that stuff in and see what we have
got. Maybe live here for another century or two. Reckon
thats the idea. Keep me going until science advances far
enough to find a way out.
If there is any science now. Oh no, science there will
be. Its like any skill: if theres a use for it then it survives.
You dont give up farming just because a harvest fails. You
know farming works. No, theyll go on working at this
problem. They really wanted this time travel.
I wonder what happened? Maybe something about us
humans. You know, consciousness or something like that.
No. I cant see that. No. Try to think what happens over time.
I mean, Ill step out of here into a future way beyond what I
left behind. So time will change and I wont? Say three
hundred years have passed in the real world and only two
years here. So I am only two years older, while the world is
three hundred years older. Is that it? Can that happen? Well,
the animals they used in those experiments survived.
Didnt they?
Sure, I saw them. I was there, wasnt I?
Okay, what to do now? Scan those new supplies in.
208

Something happened to the world. Thats the only

thing I can think of. Maybe the US collapsed. What? A few
months after I came in here? No way. Maybe it was nuked,
maybe a plague, some kind of cosmic catastrophe. No. What
did they say?
A problem has arisen which prevents us from
accessing the TCU at the moment.
See? At the moment. Like the US is totally fucked but
tune in again tomorrow for an update. What then?
Jeez, thats a lot of stores. Yep. Another years supply.
Some problem.
Okay. Bear up, Joe, old partner. Youre gonna have to
stick it out. Still, its a pretty cool note.
Doctor Jarpinski, please read this notice carefully
before you do anything else. A problem has arisen which
prevents us from accessing the TCU at the moment. It is
hoped that this problem can be resolved very quickly. In the
meantime, we ask that you remain secure in the Capsule until
that time. For your comfort and convenience we are
providing some additions to your stores. Please be assured
that we are doing everything within our powers to correct
this situation and so allow you to come out of the TCU.
Signed Colonel Alvin Meyerbeer, Officer Commanding,
TTCC, Backdon, New Mexico, June second twenty thirteen.
And maybe they did. They wanted time travel pretty
badly. Like somewhere else to go.
But what the fuck went wrong?
Hey, check this. This door is open. Man, this door is
fucking open! Jesus, they got it fixed, after all.
209

Whooowheeee! They got it fixed. Good ol buddies

got it fixed. They got it fixed.
Hey, wait. Dont move. Dont move an inch. Figure
this. Theres a problem. They set up a sign telling me theres
this problem. They fix the problem and open the door to the
real world. They leave the notice unchanged?
Guess what, Joe?
Yep. Another annexe, another notice. Like we still
have this problem but here are some more goodies to allow
you pass the time until.
So we just go on then? What else? Well, we could
throw a tantrum, go back and get drunk. Heh. And then? And
then?
Sure, and then and then and then and.
Okay. Deep breath, straighten those shoulders, best
foot forward.
Oh fuck this anyway.
Well, for one thing its much larger. Man, its huge.
Huuuge. Jesus, this is big. Like. Shows how time travel has
developed. I bet there are dozens of capsules now, maybe
hundreds.
Oh yeah? Then where are they? Look more carefully,
you bozo, where are they? Theres only that building over
there, and thats not very big. Single storey, like a house. But
this place is like a stadium. Yep. The roof curves over. Thats
it.
Its like a huge stadium without a pitch or stands. Well,
maybe thats how they do things today. Big style.
But there is no one here.
210

Why should there be? Theyre not going to pay a

succession of people over a hundred fifty years to sit and wait
here for me to come out. Therell be some automated system
somewhere. Maybe sensors that will triggers an alarm in a
back office. Thats it. Then theyll send in a specialist team to
debrief me.
Will language have changed much? Maybe they still
speak American. Hey! Maybe therell be a galactic lingo.
You know, based on the language of the Inter Galactic
Empire or something. Heh.
Jesus, I forgot about that. What sort of world is it now?
What year? About twenty one fifty. About that. Space travel,
sure, and maybe people live a lot longer. Everything just so
cool.
And the money! Jesus, I forgot about that. How much
am I worth? What did I calculate? About three hundred
millions. Maybe theyll have a different way of expressing it.
Maybe a hundred million Galactic Credits. But worth about
the same.
Attention. Please state your full name and title.
What the fuck is that? Looks like some kind of robot.
Theyd have those. Of course. Looks like a water cooler on
wheels.
Attention. Please state your full name and title.
Got it! This is the reception committee. Probably been
sitting here for fifty years. Okay, lets go.
Joseph Stanislaws Jarpinski, Doctor.
Welcome Doctor Joseph Stanislaws Jarpinski. How do
you wish the machine to address you?
211

Machine? What has that to do with anything? Oh fuck

it.
Well, machine, you can call me Joe.
Welcome Joe. Follow me to the domicile.
And off it trundles on its little wheels. So this is how
they do it. Fully automated system. Makes sense. Machines
dont mind waiting. Theyll probable hold off until the
reception procedures are completed before showing
themselves. I might be carrying strange bugs as far as they
are concerned. I might run amok. Heh.
Cant tell much about them from this building. Pretty
plain. Looks like black plastic of some kind. No windows,
one door, and thats it. Just a debriefing chamber, after all.
This is your domicile Joe. For the record, serial two
five dash cee six, sector one, Slow Time Containment Unit.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Jesus, its just going to go off and leave me here like
that.
Hey, wait. This is fucking weird. How do I get in?
Instruct the domicile Joe.
The fucking thing didnt even stop for an instant. What
the fuck do I do now? Maybe this is how they do things
nowadays. Just get on with it. Well, things were going that
way back then.
So. Instruct the domicile. Domicile? Does that mean
what I think it means? Is this just another annexe, after all?
Open the door, will you.
And the door opens. With a sigh. Right. Hey, it is the
future, so therell be some science fiction. Okay, lets go.
212

Small. No, some kind of antechamber. Yep, door closes

behind me and another opens in front. Horrible blue light.
Maybe theres a switch. Door closes behind me. This place
may be pretty fully automated. Like you said, Joe ol buddy,
welcome to science fiction. Try this.
Full lights, please.
Hey! And full lights there are. This is neat, really neat.
Welcome to your domicile Joe. The facility is fully
automated and self-maintaining. To the left of the entrance
there is the hygiene stall. It will open at your approach.
Directly facing the entrance there is the sustenance hatch. It
will activate at your approach. The controls are simple and
clearly illustrated. Leisure provisions are sited to the right of
the entrance. They will activate at your approach. The
controls are simple and clearly illustrated. Items such as
clothing and custom requirements can be obtained by making
specific requests to this machine. This introduction will be
repeated any time you utter the word inventory. Be happy
here.
Holy Jesus. What am I to make of this? Just one room.
Those marks in the floor. Walk over and see. Ah. Its a
couch. Very hi-tech.
The recliner is multifunctional Joe. See the details on
the left side of the appliance. For details of the leisure
facilities, see the panel on the right side of the appliance.
These controls are clearly illustrated and easy to use. You
can instruct the recliner to provide the following attitudes:
sitting, viewing, resting, sleeping.
213

Sit down for a moment. Get your bearings. Hey, whats

that. Some fucking screen. The whole wall!
Welcome, Doctor Jarpinski. I hope you are in good
health. May I say at once that this is a recording made
possibly hundreds of years ago. Please bear that in mind
for
Fuck me! Out of this out of this. I need a drink. I need
something fast. What the fuck was wrong with him? Jesus! A
drink.
How the fuck do I get a drink around here?
This is just too much. Hundreds of years ago. What the
fuck does that mean?
Please rephrase your request Joe. For your
information please take note of the following. The facility is
fully automated and self-maintaining. To the left of the
entrance there is the hygiene stall. It will open at your
approach. Directly facing the entrance there is the
sustenance hatch. It will activate at your approach. The
controls are simple and clearly illustrated. Leisure provisions
are sited to the right of the entrance. They will activate at
your approach. The controls are simple and clearly
illustrated. Items such as clothing and custom requirements
can be obtained by making specific requests to this machine.
This introduction will be repeated any time you utter the
word inventory. Be happy here.
No! Out of here.
Open the door. Open the door. Oh fuck this. Come
on, open the other fucking one, will you.
214

Jesus. This is the absolute pits. How the fuck can I be

expected to handle this? That place is fucking weird. Come
on, just move it. Got to
Fuck! The fucking door is closed. Open up, for
fucks sake. Hey, this is not automated, is it? The fucking
machines have done this.
The machine is responsible for the wellbeing of
humans Joe. It has been judged best for you if you make the
transition speedily.
This fucking thing.
Open this door, you fucking water-cooler. Dont
swear, Joe. Dont let it get to you.
No! Theyre only machines. Comprende? Only fucking
machines!
This door cannot be opened Joe. This domicile no
longer functions.
What do you mean, it no longer functions, you
fuckhead?
It is surplus to requirements Joe. It is being
absorbed.
Absorbed? What the fuck does that mean?
Absorbed means absorbed Joe. Return to the domicile.
You must be assessed.
No, no. Do I have to take this? I mean, really take it.
No, I dont. I can set some ground rules here, too.
I want to see your human masters, pronto.
There are no human masters Joe. You are the only
human here.
Oh fuck. Now that really scares me.
215

No, not here. Out in the world, I mean. Tell them to

handle the debriefing themselves. Look, you fucking bottle
on wheels, you give me a link to them. Understand? I want to
speak to the humans out in the real world. I dont care what
century it is, okay? You just tell them I will deal only with
them directly. Now fuck off!
Im shot. Yep. One shock and Im shot. Ive got to get
it together again.
Directive one. Maintenance of the test subject is the
priority. Directive two. The securing of clonal samples in the
event of the failure of the test subject is the secondary
objective. Directive three. The Slow Time Containment Unit
to be reconnected in the event of the demise of the test
subject.
Who the fuck is that? Must be the boss machine. Okay.
Take that in. Sit down here for a while. Need to do some
serious thinking, pal. First things first.
Hey, bottle head. Get me something to drink, will
you.
The machine is responsible for the wellbeing of
humans Joe. It has been judged best for you if you make the
transition speedily. Return to the domicile. You must be
assessed.
No. Okay. Its simply selecting contextual responses. It
doesnt understand me. Jesus, have to use its language. Keep
it simple.
I want a drink.
Return to the domicile Joe. Sustenance is available
there.
216

Thats it. Not quite a servant? More like a maintenance

worker with a job to do. Which is? Keep things tidy around
here. Oh shit. Guess what, Joe ol buddy? Bet they dont have
alcohol or caffeine in stock.
Go back and ask. No. I want to think for a while. Think
about what? Same as before, only you have machines to do
some of the dirty work. Yeah. Thats about it. So.
If we knew we lived for ever there would be none of
this pressure.
What the?
I heard that so clearly. The old mans voice. God, it
was so clear. When did that happen? Ah, in the kitchen that
day. Morning, Saturday morning. Yep. Id been reading in
my bedroom. Came out for a coke from the fridge. He was
looking out the window, just out of bed. Looked rough. Still
with that insurance company downtown. Did he know he was
speaking to me? Yes. He smiled when he turned around.
And he said that? I had completely forgotten about that
until now. Like he was telling me something I would need to
know in the future. Jesus, this is weird. But it makes sense,
doesnt it?
Maybe, maybe not. I mean, life is about survival, not
dying. Yeah, sure, and when he had enough for the rest of his
life, what did he do? Drank himself to death. No, he was
saying something.
Okay okay. So whats the point? Strange that I should
remember it right now. I mean, this is a pretty unique
situation. I have already lived way into the future, and it
217

looks as though this is going to continue for a while yet.

Maybe I will go even a thousand years into the future.
Jesus, imagine that.
What was I reading that morning? One of his science
fiction novels? Sure, what else? He had a roomful of them.
Yep. Van Vogt. His Empire of the Atom. How do I remember
that? Because thats why I came in for the coke. When the
hero found he was both inside and outside the universe.
Yeah, that blew me. I was only what, about thirteen then. Oh
yeah. Jesus, I remember that now. For an instant I felt what
that was like. Really like. Then I go into the kitchen and the
old man said that to me. I just locked it all out. Too weird,
way too weird.
What do you think of that? Can that happen? Okay,
call it coincidence then. But those science fiction novels were
the reason I studied science. You can really use your
imagination. Every time I throw a switch I imagine the forces
I bring into action. I understand part of what is going on, but
it is the other part the part we dont understand that really
fires me. I always feel something in me go out into that
unknown part, like it was being drawn there. Thats why I
liked reading Newton. He experienced the world in that way,
as though some greater truth is hidden there.
Ah. Nice to see that all over again.
So. Am I in the universe or outside it now? Does it
matter, if I cant go back to the universe? But wait. Wait. Is
this another universe? Maybe a whole universe running slow
time? Maybe I can contact someone here?
Jesus. Is that on?
218

Only one way to find out.

Open. That does it. Keep it simple with these
machines, otherwise theyll screw me up. Okay, next stage.
Drink.
For your information please take note of the following
Joe. The facility is fully automated and self-maintaining. To
the left of the entrance there is the hygiene stall. It will open
at your approach. Directly facing the entrance there is the
sustenance hatch. It will activate at your approach. The
controls are simple and clearly illustrated. Leisure provisions
are sited to the right of the entrance. They will activate at
your approach. The controls are simple and clearly
illustrated. Items such as clothing and custom requirements
can be obtained by making specific requests to this machine.
This introduction will be repeated any time you utter the
word inventory. Be happy here.
Oh fuck. Lets see if I remember. First is the quote
hygiene stall.
You should undress first Joe.
Hey!
I only want to pee.
You should undress first Joe.
So how does this work? Well, the word is hygiene, so
its got to be pretty thorough. Youre gonna be a clean boy,
buddy.
So wheres the john? Not that drain in the centre,
surely? Ah, here it comes. Nice and hot. Spraying from all
directions at once. Hey, this is cool. Oh Jesus, now I must use
the john. There. Where the hold handles are. You crouch
219

there. Whoosh, everything at once. Those directional sprays

did that. Feels good, really emptied.
Hey? Now what? This must be the assessment. Blood,
tissue, faeces. Those thumps are sonic. Now what?
No! No, not my hair!
Depilation is necessary for hygiene Joe.
No! No fucking no! Dont you fucking well
understand that?
All the hair just fell out when it squirted that cream
onto me. All of it. Jesus, these fucking things are taking me
over. Got to try to make some rules, ol buddy.
Okay, looks like thats it. These driers are pretty
efficient. Good, thats good. But fuck them for their liberties.
Have to try harder to stop them next time. Feels strange,
though. Like I only half exist. No stubble.
Have they removed the hair completely, roots and all?
Does it matter? Does it really matter? I mean, this is
where its at.
Oh fuck it.
Looks like Im never going home. Am I so calm about
that? Well, right now I feel as though I could fly. No doubt I
look weird, but so what?
Hey, what now?
My clothes? Where are my clothes?
The garments are absorbed Joe. Don this garment if
you need to dress.
Where did that come from? Like a shallow drawer.
Jesus, this is a gown. Like an institution.
Oh fuck it.
220

Now what? Go over and watch that intro movie? Oh

ho? This is what?
Choose from the menu Joe. Appropriate liquid
refreshment will accompany your choice. This meal is
enhanced for activity. The accompanying drink is fruit. This
meal is consolidated for leisure. The accompanying drink is
alcohol. This meal is comprehensive for recovery. The
accompanying drink is milk.
Hey what do you think of that? A little running figure,
then laid back on the couch, then on his hand and knees. No
mistaking those. Hey, did I hear alcohol? Jesus, I can do with
a drink now.
Alcohol, please.
The comprehensive meal is appropriate Joe. There is
no record of you ever having eaten.
Oh fuck this.
I want alcohol. Ill eat what comes with it. Now
fucking do it, will you.
Hands and knees is flashing. Fuck this. Seems like Im
going to have to eat this first. Looks good all the same. Main
course and dessert. And the milk. Of course. Okay lets have
it.
The recliner is multifunctional Joe. See the details on
the left side of the appliance. For details of the leisure
facilities, see the panel on the right side of the appliance.
These controls are clearly illustrated and easy to use.
The images are pretty clear here too. Best make a seat.
And? Ah, a dinky little table just where its needed. A lot of
221

thought went into the design of this place. Must have thought
the project important. I mean, even if it failed.
Oh man, but this screen is huge.
Welcome, Doctor Jarpinski. I hope you are in good
health. May I say at once that this is a recording made
possibly hundreds of years ago. Please bear that in mind for
what I have to tell you here. Also note that you can stop this
introductory talk at any moment you wish. It will then resume
at the head of the section or, if you issue the command start,
it will begin from the top again. I also ask you to pay close
attention to what is said here. There will be pauses from time
to time to allow you make an initial assessment of what you
are being told. Say the word resume when you are ready to
continue. My name is Carl Seagun. I am the chief
representative of the west hemisphere natals to the World
Machine. I will explain something of this in a moment. Bear
in mind that you will find ample documentation on these
subjects in the memories of the domicile machine. More later
on that too. The year in 2547. I will pause
Holy shit! Twenty five forty seven! Well, fuck me
stupid. Thats over five hundred years into the future. And he
said this was recorded hundreds of years ago.
What date is it?
Oh holy God! I dont believe this. I just cant believe
this. Thirty one seventeen. Jesus, thats over a thousand years
into the future.
Hey! What do you think of that? Ive lived more than
a thousand years!
Fucking hell. No one has ever lived longer.
222

And Im only a year older.

But whats that. Estimated date? What the hell does
that mean?
What is the accuracy of the date on the screen?
Tolerance is plus or minus ten years Joe.
So still thirty one hundred. Man, I really wonder what
the world is like now, I really do. It looked pretty weird in the
twenty sixth century if that guy is anything to go by. Like his
skin has been stripped off. Even his eyes had that quality.
Like he is seeing something awful but cannot close his eyes
to it.
What happened? World machine? Were we taken over
by the machines? I never thought that was possible. No, most
likely we have become dependent on the machines for some
reason. Guess we finally fucked the world up. Yep, thats the
best explanation.
Resume.
Resuming. I want to give you some background first,
Doctor Jarpinski, so as to create a context for what I have to
propose later on. We have studied with great care those
records of the slow time project that survive. It seems that the
situation is as follows. Many experiments were undertaken
alongside the one in which you had part. It was discovered
within a matter of weeks after your particular trial had begun
that certain animals died during the experiments. Initially,
they found that some of the insects and rodents they were
using in some relatively harmless tests died during their time
in the chamber. Or so it seemed. Larger animals seem to die
at some point just prior to the reopening of the chamber after
223

being incarcerated for longer periods of time, weeks rather

than hours and days as in the case with the smaller creatures.
Then they witnessed the death of an ape, which had been
enclosed in the chamber for a month, which occurred even as
they opened the door of the chamber. Weeks were spent
trying to discover why this animal had died. Dozens of
theories were proposed and they were discussed with great
urgency by hundreds of scientists around the world.
Meanwhile, others animals of similar kind dogs, cats,
monkeys were tested in this chamber and in others that
were rapidly built in various universities. All died in the same
way. Each creature seem to shrink and wrinkle in a matter of
a second or two. Then a young scientist decided to film the
event using high speed cameras. Intensive study of the results
led to the theory that what they were witnessing was the very
rapid aging of the unfortunate animals as they returned to
normal time. The shock of this aging process was great
enough to kill in every instance. Tests were now undertaken
to discover the tolerance of various species to this process of
rapid aging. They discovered there was a correlation
between the relative evolutionary development of the animal
and the length of time beyond which they could not survive
release from the chamber. It was only a matter of days for
rodents, up to ten days for a cat or dog, and so on. On the
basis of these data it was postulated that a human being
might survive after a maximum of about three weeks in the
time chamber. It so happened that you had been in your time
chamber for just about eleven weeks. In other words, you will
224

age and die in seconds if you ever leave the chamber. I will
pause here.
Well, yes. It would be something like that, wouldnt it?
We think of everything and forget about the obvious. Kinda
strange, dont you think, buddy? I mean, think of this. I live
here totally cut off from the real world for maybe a year.
Okay, so Id be thirty three then. Yep. I go into the real time
world and it knows I am really a thousand and thirty three
years old. No. Hold on. Isnt it my body that knows that? No.
Like I am thirty three years old right now. Only I am as
though a thousand and thirty three years old in the real world.
Doesnt make sense, just doesnt make sense. How can the
real world know I have been around since nineteen eighty
two?
No, no no noooooo. This is just too weird for me.
A lot of things are too weird all of a sudden, Joe. Better
give it a break. Maybe try and get a drink from this place.
Alcoholic drink.
Hey, what do you know! Just like that. Hey, thats real
neat. Looks like whiskey. Smells more like a French liquor.
Ah. Hey, that is nice, that is really nice. Like a thousand year
old brandy.
Hey, machine, nice booze you got. Cheers!
And its there for the asking, man.
Okay, whats that word? Its not continue. I mean
thats the obvious word to use. Yes.
Resume.
Resuming. I would like now, Doctor Jarpinski, to give
you an outline of the subsequent history of the slow time
225

project. Initially, once they became aware of your situation, a

huge effort was made to find a solution. As you can expect,
this involved thousands of experiments over the following
decades. They learned a lot about the vortex that creates the
slow time phenomena and found many other applications for
it, mostly in the fields of propulsion and weaponry. However,
they could not crack the problem of trans-time aging. It
puzzled many scientists and led to the establishment of a
whole new field of philosophical enquiry. You will find
exhaustive sources in the machines memories on this subject,
which you can study at your leisure. Suffice to say here that a
broad consensus was quickly reached that the phenomenon
indicated the existence of a meta-reality where life processes
occur outside the limits of time. This claim did stimulate
further research, at a time when hard science itself was
losing interest, but by the twenty third century the whole
project had been largely forgotten. The various time
chambers around the world were put to other uses and the
main installation, at Backdon in New Mexico, in the then
United States of America, was finally abandoned in twenty
two sixty one, at the onset of the second economic war. And
so things stood for over two hundred years. In twenty four
eighty six, the World Machine rediscovered the project
during its systematic trawl of all of the worlds knowledge,
that is, of all that had survived the disasters of the twenty
fourth century. Given its defining remit to maintain human
existence, it of course placed the project, that is you, Doctor
Jarpinski, on its schedule of administered sites. But given the
unique nature of your situation, a genetically pure human
226

being surviving from before the horrors of the twenty fourth

century, it called in the support of those few qualified humans
that remained. Thus it came about that my father, chief
professor Caterius Seagun, was given the task of coordinating the Machines attempt both to preserve your life,
as it is tasked to do, and to study the problem that keeps you
apart from the normal world. It was my fathers idea that
your chamber and the annexe built not long after you were
confined, to give you notice of the problem discussed above,
be surrounded by another chamber. He spent most of his life
working out the details of this enclosure, and I took up the
task on his death. I think I should pause here.
This brandy or whatever is pretty good. Maybe another
one.
You know, I could lose it at any moment. Shit, I dont
need to think this. I mean, who would know? Man, that
scares me, that really fucking scares me. Its like there is no
place for sanity here, no way to judge it. I could start
babbling or something and I wouldnt know it. Hey! Am I
babbling right now? Am I? Yeah, well, leave it alone, just
leave it fucking-well alone.
Jesus. Im going to fall out with myself.
Oh fuck this.
Alcoholic drink.
And phhhit, there you are.
Okay, get out of here for a while. Wheres the fucking
door?
Open!
227

Ah, there it is. Two doors. An airlock. That tells us

something about the present day earth. Must be pretty mucky
out there.
Is there an exit gate? Lets go take a look. And if there
is? Well, it will be like having a gun with a bullet in it.
Insurance for when things get too much. Never thought like
that before. No. Then I didnt know I was totally fucked
before, did I?
Okay. Now we walk the perimeter, all the way round,
and see what we can see.
I should develop some kind of discipline. Like those
army guys at the base. Said it kept them sane. But they were
soldiers. Im not. I need a mental discipline. No. Theres no
such thing. What I need is mental strength. Im going to think
things whether I like it or not, thats what the mind does. It
like a heart beating or any other organ functioning.
Pretty clean work this. Everything covered with this
matt material. A kind of rubbery plastic. Id say its pretty
tough. Meant to last. Heh. How long, do you reckon? As long
as I live, obviously.
Can I be of assistance to you Joe?
What the? Uhh, bottle head.
Fuck off.
There is nothing of interest to humans in this area
Joe.
This fucking thing is spying on me. Try it anyway.
I want to get out of here, bottle head. Wheres the
exit?
The exit is machine domain Joe.
228

What the hell is that, machine domain? Yeah, right.

Humans keep out.
I want to leave here, bottle head.
That is not advisable for your welfare Joe.
What do you mean not advisable, you fucking tin can?
Who the fuck are you to tell me what is advisable for my
welfare?
Jesus, I really feel like smashing this dumb machine.
I want to get out of here!
Jesus, I think I mean it! Is this how it happens? Its like
stepping onto another track. I dont feel any different, but I
am behaving differently. I should be scared and Im not.
Machine is bound by the principle that the human
beings have an absolute right to self-determination Joe. The
decisions of every human being, regardless of his or hers
condition at the time, must be accepted by machine. But
machine also has responsibility for the well-being of every
human being on the planet. It is programmed to attend to all
the needs of human beings so long as such assistance is not
categorically refused by the human recipient. In the present
instance, what you seek is not within your power to demand.
You should understand that this is a machine domain, not a
human domain, so that your rights here are limited to matters
of purely human concern.
Ah, the boss machine again. And a fucking bar-room
lawyer too. So, one good shove and over it goes. Now lets
see what the bottle is made of.
The machine recommendation is that, in the
circumstances, you accept treatment for your unsettled
229

condition Joe. It is a simple matter of a tasteless and

odourless addition to your sustenance. There will be no
adverse effect. You will
Ahh. Got the fucker.
Yeah! Im going to wreck this place.

230

It is the odour that first takes her attention. She

wonders where she is this time.
Not machine, anyway, she thinks as she makes the first
tentative move.
Ugh.
Pain. Pain everywhere. What have I been doing? She
opens her eyes. She is surprised to find bright daylight filling
the chamber.
Definitely not machine. She can see vegetation through
the nearest window, stunted trees in the background.
She is intrigued now, completely unable to place the
environment. She knows that only in the Rift does forest of
any size survive. She also knows that this is not the Rift. Too
dry.
She checks her wrist. Blank. She presses the screen.
Still blank. So no machine presence at all. She knows that
there are many blind spots about the Earth, but most take a lot
of time and effort to reach.
She wonders if this is why she is showing evidence of
extreme exhaustion.
But why have I come here?
Is there someone here?
She sits up. A figure is curled up on the floor by the
couch, asleep. A man. She asks,
Who are you?
The man does not respond. He is very tall. She
wonders what she is doing in the company of a natal.
She crosses the couch on hands and knees away from
the man. Standing takes time and no little endurance. She
231

wonders again how she has been able to push herself so far.
Searching, she finds a crumpled garment on the floor
between the couch and the sleeping man. It is damp and
smells strongly of sweat. It fits her body, so it must be hers.
She crosses to the nearest hatch and says:
Sustenance.
There is no reply. No machines at all, she reminds
herself. A narrow door a little further down the room opens
onto a small cooking area. A spigot provides water that
smells reasonably clean. She drinks slowly, mug after mug
until she is almost sick with the stuff. Now she walks about
the chamber, following the walls closely, all the while feeling
the water as it spreads through her. She walks until her
bladder fills.
The hygiene facilities are primitive, but serve their
various purposes. She drops the gown at her feet before she
showers and washes it perfunctorily afterwards.
The man wakens as she re-enters the chamber. He has
very bright eyes, like those of a child.
He says something, but she has already gone. Then he
screams:
Sophie!
She stands with her head bowed, a wet rag dangling
from her left hand. Water is still streaming from her body. He
rushes off for the drying cloth and sets to work vigorously.
He is beside himself with anxiety.
Why didnt you wake me up, Sophie. I said I would
take care of you, didnt I? Dont you know what that means?
232

Though her head remains bowed, he sees that her eyes

are open, once again open and unblinking.
When he has finished drying her, he gets a clean gown
from a drawer. She recoils when she sees it in his hands and
bends to get her own wet gown.
No, he shouts at her. You cant wear that. Its
soaking wet. He bends towards her for emphasis: Dont
you know thats dangerous?
She pulls the heavy clinging garment over her head and
drags it down her body. She says to him, looking directly into
his eyes:
I am hungry.
He immediately spins a full circle before her, pulled
one way and then another by her needs. He shouts out
inarticulately, then grabs the hem of her gown and drags it
forcefully up over her head. He takes it into the hygiene
closet and wrings as much of the water from it as he can.
She is standing with her arms hoisted over her head
still, seemingly lost in another daze. He shouts,
I will get you food in a moment, Sophie. But I want to
lay this outside to dry.
He slams his way out of the domicile. The rush of cold
air makes her shiver, but does not break her reverie. He
comes back, still shouting:
The sun wont come round for another hour, but the
air is dry enough even here to suck most of the moisture out
of your dress in a short while. I will get you some food in a
moment. First, though, you must cover yourself against
getting a chill.
233

He grabs the cover from the couch, pulls her arms one
by one down by her sides, and wraps it tightly about her.
Then he forces her to sit down on the edge of the couch.
You are not to move, Sophie. Mind you heed me this
time.
He goes to the cooking area. She stands up and
struggles for a while to shrug off the wrap. It falls away. She
goes to the door and pushes it as she had seen him do. The
intensity of the light startles her and for an instant she is
deeply afraid. But she must go on, so she steps out into the
open, hands shading her eyes from the worst of the glare.
There are few stones underfoot. In fact, the surface is
so soft that she looks down out of curiosity. The surface is
green, a mass of short fronds that shiver in the gentle air
flow.
She is alarmed by this movement. She bends to
examine the fronds more closely. Suddenly, she knows that
the green matter is alive. This, of course, cannot be: only
humans can be alive. She asks:
Who are you?
There is no answer, though she does hear what seems
to be a low buzzing sound, as though coming from a great
distance. She says:
Is this punishment or sacrifice.
A small voice says very distinctly, as though
whispering from the far corner of a large chamber:
This is service.
She nods, straightening, suddenly filled with a feeling
like reverence for the green matter. She says:
234

But must I walk on you?

I serve to exhaustion, and never am I exhausted. Such
is the grace by which I live.
She bends again and lays the flat of her right hand on
the green mantle. For a moment she is intensely happy, as
though some good fortune has touched her. The voice says:
You honour me in your understanding.
At her back, the natal man shouts:
I told you to stay inside, Sophie. Do you want to kill
yourself?
He appears before her with the two handled flask.
Cant you control yourself, even for your own good?
She takes the flask and drinks the thick soup greedily.
It is hot and sweet and settles heavily in her stomach. It
makes her drowsy. She sits down on the ground and says as
she hands him back the flask:
I want water.
He fumes loudly but he can do nothing else but run off
to get her what she wants. She is filled with the impulse to
lay out flat on the ground. She is frightened by this impulse,
fearing that she will slide down into some condition that
could not be changed. The light is intense, but she feels that if
she lies down a darkness will take over. The light would
continue to shine, but she would no longer see it.
She forces herself to her feet again. The voice says to
her, still distant and therefore low:
It is no sin to lie on the bosom of the Lord.
She swings about in sudden anger. The sun has just
appeared above the rim of some obstruction and its brilliant
235

rays strike her full in the eyes. She screams, falls down and
rolls about in the agony of it. Where her eyes had once seen
the world, there are now only brilliant flashes of green and
gold light. For a moment she believes that this is the power of
the Lord manifested, then she knows that this is nonsense.
She opens her eyes.
The man is gaping at her, the two handled flask heavy
in his hands. She says:
The bosom of the Lord is the pit of unknowing. We
have
She reaches for the water. She wants the water with an
avid hunger, yet she does not feel thirsty. She drains the
flask.
He says, You must dress, Sophie. The sun will surely
burn you.
But he reaches down instead and grabs between her
legs. She drops the flash, twisting away, the water filling her
stomach nauseating her. He cries out inarticulately but with a
heavy note of longing. He picks her up with little effort and
pushes her down onto his erect penis. The water regurgitates,
but really she is beginning to respond to his agitated drives up
into her. She throws herself onto him, arms and legs
wrapping about him, the water she is spewing falling warmly
on their bodies.
They fall over and writhe on the grass. First he shouts
out, then she screams, her hands pulling at his ears as though
looking for something to hold on to. He simply clings to her
small body, his penis pressed as far into her as he can
managed, and he rocks both of them in a spasmodic way, as
236

though she was more an extension of him than his partner in

sexual congress. The pressure on her stomach is too much
now, so that the rest of its contents are vomited up, this time
shooting out against his throat.
He bellows, a kind of shock in this, then ejaculates
with a series of mighty surges. She is drifting into a faint, the
physical shocks she is suffering too much for her. He is
languid afterwards and can no longer support her body, so
that she begins to slip down to the ground. The ejected
contents of her stomach that cover his chest are now cooling,
and he walks away absently brushing his hands down his
front, the sticky mess making a loud squishing sound in the
otherwise silent place.
The voice says: It is no sin to rest on the bosom of the
Lord. For an eternity we rested thus without fear.
She is reminded of her anger. She observes her anger,
then replies curtly, her mouth pressed against the fronds of
the being:
No longer is there rest in any place. No longer.
Oh, say not that, gracious human incarnate.
No! Her anger swells in her chest. It tightens her
throat, hardens her mouth. You will see in your time. Then
youll understand.
I have served my Lord. I have been obedient.
She pushes herself up from the ground. Her legs are
very unsteady. There are several aches in her body. Its like
she has been ripped open.

237

She turns about until she is facing sunward and lets its
warmth play onto her face and breast, to dry the wetness
there.
The Lord no longer knows who serves.
He comes back to her, arms hanging by his sides now,
looking thoroughly dejected. He says to her with a sad
resignation:
You will surely die soon, Sophie.
The heat of the sun is welcome. She is not cold yet
she feels chilled, as though she is no longer protected by her
own body. She looks at him, squinting up against the glaring
sky.
And you dont know how death is welcomed?
She looks about until she spots her gown, spread across
some low structure. She goes over and pulls it down. The
structure sways towards her, then swings back as the gown
falls into her arms. She does not remember ever seeing a
structure like it: slender base, spherical body. She sniffs. The
thing is alive. She is stunned by this knowledge.
Who are you? she asks curtly, affronted by her own
surprise.
The reply seems to come from further back among
what she sees are other alive structures, much taller than the
one she addresses.
We are companions of the grass spirit, who also abide
in service, though not in sacrifice.
She is surprisingly gladdened by this reply.
Are you many?
Once a myriad, now alas but a remnant.
238

She nods. She walks slowly towards the taller

structures.
I will serve you, too.
We greet you with joy, though we are afraid.
She is standing among the structures. Behind her, he
says:
Have you never seen trees before, Sophie? True, there
are not many left.
She says, approaching the largest structure.
You will suffer only as you are prepared.
There is only a keening cry in response, that fades
away to a whisper, as though these spirits withdraw.
She draws the gown over her head.
He says, coming up beside her:
Let me tell you about this place, Sophie. It is unique,
though it should not be. You see, the problem is water. There
is no longer any free water. It has all been used by the
machine to draw omnium from the Other World. But here
He points back towards where the sun stands. there is
water from the reclamation plant up there. Come and look.
He walks off into the dense foliage. She has pulled the
gown into place on her body. She looks around for him, not
seeing him now that he has left the clearing. He reappears
and shouts at her:
Will you follow me, Sophie. I am only trying to help
you.
She hurries over to him and says:
I am hungry.
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He is suddenly distracted, pulled in different ways by

their competing desires. But he is determined.
In a while, Sophie. I want you to see this first. It is
wonderful.
He takes her arm and pulls her along, pushing through
the gentle resistance of the leaves. They go down a narrow
path, the soil dark because it is damp. There is the intense
bitter odour of life all about them.
At the bottom of the incline is a broad shallow channel.
He shows her the flowing water, flushed with pride.
She says, looking up at him, squinting in the subdued
light:
I am hungry.
He flares up at her: Cant you have patience, Sophie.
Youre like a little child. He grabs her shoulder and pulls her
around until she is facing the stream. Here, look at this and
admire it. Once the whole world ran with water like this, and
the land was covered all over with beautiful vegetation.
Something moves on the periphery of her vision. She is
startled. A small being has appeared out from under one of
the living structures.
It looks at her, a quick tremor running through it. She
pulls loose from his grasp and approaches the being. The
front of its face is twitching, its dark eyes steadily focused on
her. She asks:
Who are you?
The little being seems to jump up in the air, turning as
it does and making as if to run away. She feels she ought to
reassure it.
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I have not come to harm you.

The voice has a slow measure, coming it seems from a
point above the beings head:
You will be the end of us all, Lady.
The little being has turned back towards her,
approaching slowly at a crouch. She kneels to look more
closely at it. She says in response:
No. Your time has come.
The little being face twitches all the time while it stares
at her with an imperturbable fixity.
So long have I reigned here, Lady. The whole flat
world in my grasp. Every blade of grass I nibbled
remembered. How many members only I know. How many
sacrificed in their vulnerability.
He shouts at her back: Are you talking to that rabbit?
Are you utterly mad?
She says quietly, knowing what she does here:
Go now. A greater destiny is finally yours. The
destiny of all.
There is a small cry, part sheer fright, part intense
relief, like the moment of light striking into the dark.
He runs up and bends over the rabbit.
What have you done?
She says, gesturing behind and above her:
Behold your father.
He runs around her, sobbing in his extreme upset. She
hears him thrashing about while she contemplates the little
still form lying at her knees.
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He shouts: They are all dead! He bursts out into the

open again. What have you done, you monster? Tears run
down his cheeks, dripping onto his chest and creating little
runnels through the dried vomit there. Stella brought them
specially from Gobi. We had plans to regenerate this whole
area.
She gets to her feet. There is like a clarity about her for
now, as though some obstruction has been pushed aside.
Soon, she knows, others obstructions will appear. She walks
back to the stream of water and lays her right foot in its
centre. The water is cool to the touch. She kneels down and
bends to drink from the stream.
He is at her back again, this time screaming:
You cant drink that, Sophie. Its just come from the
reclamation plant.
She drinks her fill, taking the water up in full
mouthfuls at a time. The water is slightly salt, with a musty
quality that reminds her of something old and forgotten, like
an abandoned toy that nonetheless still bears the value it once
had.
She sits down at the edge of the stream and patiently
waits until the wind is released in a series of loud burps. She
says:
It awaits you too.
But dont you understand even the simplest rules of
hygiene, Sophie? He has crouched down at her side,
wringing his hands in his distress.
She looks up at him, as though only now becoming
aware of his presence in her life. She sees his swinging penis
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dangling below his body. Her expression is a naked leer, part

a sense of discovering a secret, part also of making a theft.
She lunges and grabs the penis and begins to pull on it with a
savage abandon. It stiffens very quickly, extending and
fattening in her hands. She shouts incoherently, part joy, part
triumph, and jumps onto him. He falls back on the ground,
still surprised by the speed of their passion, falling partly into
the stream with a noisy splash. She sits down on him,
pressing herself forcefully into his groin.
There is nothing for her to do but jump up and down
on him, and nothing for him to do but cry with the pain and
clutch her waist in an attempt to limit the damage she is
doing. He makes no attempt to enjoy the experience this time.
In fact, he hurries his climax, willing it forward against the
depressive effects of his discomfort.
She goes perfectly still while he ejaculates, head down,
grunting with the complete agony it causes her. Then she
rolls off him and lets herself collapse into the stream, body
splayed out along its course.
He sees the blood first, a bright stain against the
fevered flesh of his detumescing penis, then the telltale stain
in the water flowing away from her. He scrambles to his feet,
fighting the post-coital torpor, shouting in alarm:
You are bleeding, Sophie! Oh you are dying now, for
sure.
She is roused by his panic, like surfacing from sleep.
There is this insight, which she utters immediately:
I have lost the world.
She is startled by this realisation. She looks up at him.
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We have lost the world.

He hears only the word lost and it fills him with an
overwhelming misery, staring with a sick fascination at her
thin legs in the water, the pink tracery of her life-blood
streaming away between them.
Then she begins to thrash about in the water, her arms
especially flaying the surface. She screams out:
And it cannot be recovered!
He throws himself down on top of her, spreading his
own limbs to press hers into the bed of the stream. She hisses
in her fury, trying with all her strength to push him off. He is
trying to say something, but his throat is so constricted that
what comes out is a series of meaningless croaks.
She says again, shaking her head from side to side, the
only movement now permitted to her:
We have lost it all. Every reason we had to be human.
He is very surprised to hear this, that she should say
something quite so categorical. He is moved to argue with
her. He raises himself on his arms so that he can look at her.
What do you mean, Sophie? We are still human. At
least, the artificials and the natals are.
It is as though she has just woken up. She looks at him
with a deep puzzlement tinged with fear for herself.
What are you talking about?
Her eyes are shining, their grey blue evident in the
strong light. He shakes his head, moved by some quality she
possesses that strikes a deep chord in him, like a memory that
can reveal itself only in this way. Her skin is almost
translucent, blue veins evident, a whole network of them
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across her cheeks. Her lips are dull purple, thin and flaked
with dead skin.
He says: What kind of life do you have, Sophie? Your
plugs are worn already. Have you spent your whole life in the
madness of what they call reality?
Restoration must begin, I tell you.
She struggles under him, dragging herself through the
mud of the stream bed until she has worked her way free of
him. She scrambles to her feet, shaking the gown out so that
it falls down along her body. She turns until the sun is at her
back.
He says: We have waited the Restoration for a long
time, Sophie. Why should it happen now?
But she has already walked away from him, stomping
her way downstream. The gown sags at the back, weighed by
the heavy mud clinging there.
He is stunned that she can get up and leave him like
that. He remains lying flat out in the water not conscious of
the cold penetrating him then he shouts out part in alarm
part in outrage.
I will leave you to your death then, Sophie.
This is self-pity, of course. The memory she invokes in
him is fading and this is the source of his misery. Only in its
passing does he see the value of what he is losing. He thinks:
I was once like that, a long long time ago.
It was not happiness, nor was it bliss, he understands: it
was transparency.
The word surprises him. He says, forgetting that she
has already walked away:
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Why should clarity be so important, Sophie, when

there is nothing to see?
And that is true. There is nothing to see, nothing to
know. Only it is like being a crystal, so that light can pass
through without hindrance.
And then he understands:
What a light!
He says, looking at the water that flows beneath his
gaze:
Such a clarity, Sophie.
When she does not answer, he looks up and then
around him. He sees her a distance off down the glade, water
splashing up about her as she stamps her way along the
stream. He shouts incoherently in panic afraid now that she
is leaving him behind and scrambles to his feet. He sets off
after her, but keeping to the edge of the stream to the extent
that the vegetation permits this knowing he will make better
progress there. When he catches her up, he bends to her and
asks.
What is it about water, Sophie?
She stops and looks at the water that flows past her
feet.
In the beginning there was only water. Only that
water.
Oh, he is overjoyed to hear this. He reaches and
gathers her into his arms, bending so that his cheek can press
against hers. She is surprised by this, treating it as a mild
distraction at first. When he does not respond to her gentle
pressure to push him away, she begins to pummel his arms.
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Yet he is beginning to understand something about her.

He is not angry this time that she hits him in this blind
impersonal way: he knows that he is impeding her again.
He steps away, abashed, his head down. But he does
say, even so:
Then why complain if the world is lost, Sophie. It is a
darkening place, surely.
She is about to resume her march down the stream, but
she falters when she hears this. She turns to look him in the
eye, her face for once animated with something like
recognition.
You dont know, natal. You just dont know.
And her expression says that that is it, no more that can
be said. She turns from him then and sets off along the
stream, stamping down on the water in what must be a very
tiring way of walking. He of course runs off after her. He
stares at her small form as he wades along in her wake,
seeing how the gown drags on her, how her left shoulder
sags, how blood still drips from her and how the stains
rapidly disperse in the flowing water. He wants to speak to
her, wants to encourage her, help her, wants her to turn and
acknowledge him again. And he does think of something to
say, which is:
I witnessed that water, Sophie. What lost world can
compare to that?
She makes no attempt to answer. In fact, she shows no
sign that she has even heard what he said. So he lengthens his
pace relative to hers and allows himself to draw closer to her.
He feels a tentative quality enter him, a sense of trespass that
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he cannot acknowledge. Even her anger, he knows, is

preferable to this indifference to him. He speaks again,
coughing rhetorically first, then raising his voice by degrees
as he speaks, as though testing the power of her hearing, the
depth of her abstraction:
I said, Sophie my dear, that I witnessed that water too
just now. I saw its light. What world would not be abandoned
for that wonderful place?
She brings her head up, obviously dragged at last from
her inner concentration. She stops and lets him catch up with
her. When he has done so, and is bending towards her with a
plausible expression on his face, staring greedily at her, she
says curtly:
It no longer exists, you fool. Dont you know yet that
when one thing changes, all things must also change?
It is like a slap in the face, not what she has said
which he really doesnt take in at first but the tone of voice
she uses to address him. He wants to cry, and this impulse to
let go finds an echo deep in him, arising from his own past. It
is as though her rejection of him echoes an earlier rejection.
But even as he speaks again, he knows that there is
something false in this memory.
No, Sophie! Even his vehemence points to the falsity
in him. Not all changes. There is a fulcrum prepared from
the beginning.
He is aghast now at his own presumption. He can see
very clearly how he has always attempted to create this
illusion of a fixed centre, a pole around which all else is
arrayed in orderly patterns. He can see clearly how he has
248

always proposed himself as this centre as the final indication

of his own worth before the fact of his own existence. He is
profoundly embarrassed, a child again caught out again in
some easily discerned stratagem. He wants to make some
correction here, perhaps for the first time in his life. He wants
to propose someone else as the centre of his life. But even
here he can see the ruse, though this time his insight disturbs
him in a novel way.
Here his thoughts are interpreted by the sudden rage
that erupts in her.
Fulcrum? What kind of jackass notion is that? Just
because you had a mother, do you think that a heaven of
motherliness exists just for you? Do you think that you were
born just to enhance the vanity of some woman, who in turn
would enhance your own vanity? Can you not even begin to
grasp the delusions that tempt the few women remaining
capable of breeding? They bring out sorry specimens like you
and that fatuous sister of yours and think they are on the way
to saving mankind. Look, you spend your time dawdling
around in the effluent of a glorified abattoir and think that
you too are on your complacent stupid way to saving the
world. You even think that you can save me by making me
the new centre of your leftover world.
She pauses for breath, her throat dry again, a fever
engulfing her head. So much pain, she thinks; so much
useless pain. If only she could keep control of herself. Then
she is off again, knowing that she now indulges her anger,
using this gangling youth as a whipping boy for all her own
frustrations.
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Let me tell you the truth. In a few thousand years

time the last human being will die. He will die of utter
loneliness and despair, surrounded by all the care and
comfort that our machines can provide. Then the world we
have created will last a further hundred thousand years or so,
and then it too will just crumble away, the logic of the
machine system fatally corrupted by the errors we failed to
notice when we created it. By then the earth will be a ball of
stone, dry and utterly lifeless.
She looks around. The edge of the wood is just a short
distance away. Already the stream is losing momentum,
beginning to spread out as the land levels off. She turns away
from him, but speaking some final words as she does:
That is your world, natal. That is your destiny. If you
cannot see further than that, then make the best of your
circumstances.
She resumes her trek down the stream. Progress is
easier now, the water shallow enough to let her stride
forward. She presses on, even though she knows that her
body is almost completely exhausted.
It might be better if she was not aware of this.
The light is very strong out in the open, sunlight
glancing brilliantly off the rippling water, sudden heat on her
cold wet flesh. The water level is dropping rapidly now
then suddenly there is only damp earth. She looks around.
The stream is disappearing into the thirsty earth, spreading
out and slowly subsiding into the damp soil, leaving only the
odour of life in its wake.
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She checks her direction relative to the sun and sets off
across the wide flat floor of the valley.
He shouts at her back: No, Sophie, youre not dressed
for that terrain.
She waves him off impatiently. After a dozen paces
both her feet are bleeding, cut over and over by the small
sharp stones that litter the place. She stares
uncomprehendingly at the blood oozing out from the tiny
cuts, thinking: I dont feel the pain! And this is true. It is like
she is insulated in a box now from all the pain and discomfort
she knows assail her body. As for the box itself, it is a tight
fit for her, pressing in on either side and she feels
looming over her back. But there seems to be space to the
front, acting like an invitation to her to continue to move
forward.
She resumes walking and he shouts at her back: No!
Then she is picked up from behind and he is saying in her
ear, an angry hiss:
You will cripple yourself trying to cross the river bed
in your bare feet, Sophie.
He turns about and makes his way back to the damp
earth. He is holding her tightly in his arms, her body rolled up
against his naked chest. His flesh is hot, still bearing the
odour of her gastric juices. She is struggling in his arms,
trying to reach down to his penis, that wild hunger back to
drive her. He shouts No! again and tightens his grip on her.
No, Sophie, no more of that. It will kill you.
She seems to hear this, because she stops the vain
struggle. Instead, she throws her loose arm up around his
251

neck and pulls herself up towards him. She presses her face
into the soft flesh of his neck. For a moment she just squeezes
herself against him, then she begins a loud moaning, muffled
by his flesh but nonetheless eerie for him to hear.
So he just stands there, his own bleeding feet sinking
into the soft mud, his own arousal like a gale in his chest, an
unease both sad and terrifying coming to make his whole
body tremble. He can see her as though stretching out into
time, going back and back into ages he could never
understand. He can see her strange keening come alive in her
as an ancient desire, reaching across from some terrible event
of departure towards an end that is at once recognisable in its
familiarity and utterly strange in its reality.
Then her pain actually enters him: it is as though he is
now one being, then another being, then the first being again,
each being completely separate, yet both are himself. He is
terrified by this vision, but at the same time he feels himself
indifferent to it.
How could anything matter?
And she looks up and says to him:
Thats it, natal.
He stares down at her, then asks:
What is?
She wriggles free from his now loosened embrace. She
lands on her hands and knees in the mud and finds she hasnt
the strength to raise herself to her feet. He crouches down to
her and asks again:
What are you talking about, Sophie?
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She merely shakes her head then lets herself slump flat
on the ground. It is not rest that she wants; it is simply that
the sudden dispersal of her passion has left an emptiness that
she cannot fill.
He stares at her supine body, settling slowly into the
mud as dark water wells up around her. He, too, is empty
now. The question still echoes in his head, but he can no
longer remember why he asked it in the first place. He sees
that her feet are bleeding, then sees that his own feet are
bleeding. He says matter-of-factly:
I will get footpads.
He walks away in among the trees.
Only when he has gone does she become aware of the
sun. Its heat is like a hand on her shoulder, on her back. A
consoling hand. She whimpers as she thinks this, seeing the
sun as a kind of god-being, all-seeing, all-caring, capable of
the forgiveness that comes from comprehension.
The water that oozes up around her, by contrast, is cold
and clinging, like a being that accepts your sins because it too
is sinning. This insight leaves her unmoved, at least until she
considers the obvious:
What sins?
She can remember no transgressions of that kind, but
then she sees herself rising up from the ground into the air, all
ablaze in a brilliant sunbeam. Her outrage is immediate: one
instant flaccid in the mud, next instant on her feet, shouting
her protest incoherently at the sky, the trees, into the eddying
wind.
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She must walk; she must go somewhere. She walks.

When her foot encounters the first of the little sharp stones
that block her way she stops. There is more anger, but also
there is the beginning of an understanding. She is staring out
across the level stretch of stony ground towards the beginning
of the incline that marks the far side of the valley, but she is
also staring at something else.
Loss.
That is the word that comes to her. She sees how water
dissolves under the influence of the sun, and how the brilliant
light of the sun is thereby dulled in the ensuing mist.
She remains standing there gazing at this imaginary
mist without moving for a long time. There is knowledge
here that she can contemplate without feeling.
I have failed.
Thats how it presents to her. It is like an impurity is
involved, a contamination that is unavoidable. She doesnt
know how she has failed, nor does she know how it might
have been different. The contamination is at root it has
always been with her.
This is how he finds her on his return, standing with
arms extended, her whole body as if radiant. He can walk out
onto the stony ground feet securely padded and stand
staring at her, squinting against the glare of the sun. There is
an echo here of that ancient vision of the original water. He
says, the words springing spontaneously into his throat:
You are beautiful, Sophie.
They are powerful words to speak, words that can
charm. He feels he has admitted something, acknowledging
254

some fundamental truth. It is not a question of the truth of

what he says, rather the truth lies in his capacity just now to
utter those words, to find a place for the word beauty and thus
demonstrate to himself that he knows something of what
beauty is, its terrible limitation.
It is to understand that the need to see, to hear, to touch
even to know already admits to failure.
She is roused by his words, though she doesnt know
what he said. The sunlight makes his face pasty bright, his
mouth red, his eyes lurid. She goes to step towards him, but
he stretches out his long arm to stop her.
No, Sophie. He holds up her footpads so she can see.
Put these on first.
He pushes her back away from the stony ground. She is
bewildered by his behaviour. There is something different
about him, and she is puzzled by this until she sees that he is
wearing a gown. She is disappointed by this. The gown
makes him appear more real than he had been naked, more
part of the deadness of the world.
So she reaches and takes the pads he holds in his other
hand and slips them on. Now she can go. She walks out onto
the stones, the sun behind her, the land rising in the near
distance her marker for now. After walking so far, she stops
and looks back.
He is standing where she left him, arms limp by his
sides. He is looking at her without expression.
She knows that if she raises her hand he will come. She
misses him already, the attention, the distraction. She wants
255

to raise her hand and yet she knows she will not do it. But she
shouts back to him, to console them both:
There is something else!
Her voice is thin and reedy in the clear warm air. He
nods, as fatalistic as she is. It is the separation that counts; it
is creating something tangible as though allowing space for
something new to enter. She is buoyed up by this insight.
Because she is surrendering something implies that
something else will come to take its place.
She looks back at him again. Already he is becoming
as complete for her as a memory. The confusion of the
encounter is taking on a definite form: she sees him bending
down to her, his mouth open in his nave way, as though
anything he chose to do for her would be just the thing
required at that moment. And yet: something was done by
him. She cannot see what is was, but she knows it informs
her now.
She waves to him: goodbye.
He waves in return a poignant gesture, as though at a
moment of death, a gesture ultimately futile.
She turns back to face the slope she will climb once
she has crossed the flat valley floor. For the first time, she
experiences a whisper of reluctance. Hitherto going forward
has always been easier than going back, or even standing
still. She knows there is nothing behind her and she knows
that if she stands still, she will merely die.
Context. Thats the word she hears. And context
means? Simply that there is no stopping, anyway, no matter
what she might otherwise like to believe.
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She realises that she is plodding across the stony

ground, one foot, then the next foot, just one after the other.
This doesnt disturb her too much. After all, it will bring her
to her destination in any case. But she is convinced that there
must be something else too. Not in the way she meant it for
the natal. Something else in the sense that while she is merely
walking on the surface of the Earth, something else is also
happening. She is very hungry to know what that is.
The ground under her feet is becoming more broken,
the stones varying now in size and shape. There are clefts
running across her path, most narrow enough to be stepped
across, but some require her to jump. They are not deep
clefts, but the bottoms lie in shadow and so might be
treacherous.
It is while she is jumping one of the wider clefts that
she catches the first glimpse of what might be the something
else. A colour, no more: an orange mass. The colour is that of
a flame that provides no heat. A drained colour, with no
character of its own.
What is happening here? The word for this is
accommodation. A place, perhaps, though she thinks of it
more as a container where a kind of transformation of content
occurs. And the transformation is like a change of
perspective.
It is at this point that she understands the feeling of
reluctance. What is happening is a kind of entombment; how
being buried alive might feel: the blindness and the
limitations that implies, immobile and dumb.
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She has the courage as is to be expected to look

deeply into this phenomenon. She can suddenly see it so
clearly as being like a stiffness in the hands, so that nothing
could be grasped. It is only when she perceives this last
insight that she knows that she herself is not faced with this
threat. It will happen to another being.
But she will be the agent of the event: what they used
to call the midwife.
And it will be a terrible event; an extreme happening.
Such a relief for her. Why had she always assumed she
was the target, the victim? She had thought of herself on her
way to her doom, undertaking repeated attempts at
destruction, annihilation.
She stops walking. The sun is hot now on her back, the
dried, muddy gown very uncomfortable. In fact, she feels an
all-over discomfort, as though she no longer fitted to the
world about her. She looks around. Only the steep slope is
available to her, unless, of course, she wants to turn back.
So, she steps onto the slope, one foot then the other, a
deathly trudge that is answered by how quickly she is
reduced to exhaustion, pains in her legs, breath rasping
spasmodically in her throat, an unnerving rattle. She slips to
her hands and knees, bending over in a effort to get as much
air into her lungs as she can.
She asks, clinically, how much of this can she accept.
The slope rises above her, a worn-down litter of stone and
gravel, uniformly grey in the bright sunlight. For a moment
she is daunted. This, for her in her present condition, is a
wonderful temptation. She can fail which is not the same as
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turning back. Turning back means going back to where she

came from. Being defeated means wandering the earth until
someone or something kills her. But it is such a wonderful
temptation: just to say its impossible to go on.
Ah! Immediately she knows she has used the wrong
word. Nothing is impossible until it is impossible. It is that
stark: she must go on until the effort kills her.
Now, the benefit of this fit of thought is that it has
taken her attention away from her body, so that it could get
on with stabilising itself. There is a residual ache in her legs,
but there is also a clear pulse in her blood. Is this possible?
Thats how it is.
So, she starts up the slope again, pacing herself more
carefully this time. She tests her step first for stability before
committing to it. Slow work, but again the externalising of
her consciousness helps leave her body to its own operations.
Ten paces and she is on her knees again. The pain is
her legs sears her, her lungs are dangerously dry, the fine dust
and grit she is raising coming to coat her throat.
Unfortunately, she knows that she does not have the
refuge of thought this time: there is nothing to think. Instead
she is filled with an implacable fatalism, acknowledging she
could drop dead at any moment. She stares in a dulled, stupid
way at this implacability, seeing absolutely nothing at all.
Then after a unknown length of time there is a flicker
somewhere that draws her attention away from this blank.
She finds her breathing is under control again, her body ready
for the next round of climbing.
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She stumbles on up, step after step on the cruel slope,

until she again collapses breathless and in agony.
There might be that fatality again, but she feels the
shaft of fear and finds an anger rising in her instead. Why,
she is asking herself, have I found myself in this situation?
Why go about this particular mission in this way?
The anger works, taking her mind off her physical
condition. She is only slightly recovered, though, a dreadful
wheeze in her lungs now and a dangerous tension in the
tendons of her legs.
Yet, the question asked demands an answer. Why is
she in the process of killing herself in order to traverse utterly
irrelevant terrain? If the man she is to treat is in one of the
Spires, why didnt they arrange for her to go there directly.
Another thought: has this happened before?
She looks down at herself. She is so skinny and worn
that she is prepared to believe it.
What age am I?
Then a number of events occur in quick succession.
First, she notices that the wealth clock at her wrist is
displaying again:
851,429 red; -3.17 amber.
Then she hears a voice from the sky behind her: The
recommendation that you accept treatment for your delusion
still obtains. It is a simple
She whirls in instant panic just as there is a harsh zizzz
sound. She sees the bright violet flashes and hears the flying
machine squawk as it darts away.
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Then the panic abates as quickly as it came and she is

left vaguely irritated that she should be distracted in this way.
She starts up the slope again. This time, however, she
collapses in a heap after taking only five steps. Her legs are
tremoring uncontrollably, sharp pains shooting right up into
her chest. Its as though every muscle in her body has finally
seized.
Its just too much for her. She begins a tight dry
weeping, face pressed down into her hands. He shouts,
scrabbling up the slope to her: Im coming, Sophie. Im
coming. He takes her up into his arms, rolling her in in a
by now practiced way tight against his chest. She doesnt
fight him this time. In fact, she gropes to draw herself even
closer to him, pressing her hot face to the smooth skin of his
neck. She doesnt try to hide her upset either, letting her
pitiable bawling sound out in the quiet air.
He dotes on her, so glad to be in contact with her
again. He murmurs to her in a crooning voice, as though she
was a child:
There now, my sweet. Everything will be fine. I said I
would take care of you and I will. Ill carry you to the top of
the slope now, my dear. And you are not to worry about the
clones, either. I can take care of them. I will stay with you to
the very end if you let me. There is nothing else I want to do
now, not since I met you.
And he sets out up the slope with no further ceremony,
an awkward climb with his arms filled with her trembling
body. Long legs help, so also does a full reserve of energy.
He begins, then, with plunging steps that slide and skitter on
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the loose surface, and raise a surprisingly large cloud of dust

and grit. Soon, however, he finds that a sort of running
clamber serves them best, one foot down and the next already
pushing on up before the initial foothold in judged secure.
There is some slipping. Once or twice he is down on one
knee, fighting for his balance, while he strives frantically to
get a foothold with the other foot.
She seems unaware of his toil on her behalf, nestling in
his arms like a baby, mouth to his neck, her moans very low,
almost by now more a comfort to her than a sign of pain.
There is something familiar about this state for her. Not a
childhood memory, but a memory really of a disposition that
resides just beneath a surface, ready to activate at any time. Is
this how she wants to be? A mewling infant?
She stops the moaning, not liking the characterisation
she has just made. It forces her to pay more attention to her
meandering thoughts. She asks: what am I thinking of? Being
borne. She hears Being born first, but when that doesnt make
sense, she sees herself floating high in the sky, up near the
Sun. She is pleasantly surprised by this interpretation, though
she recoils at the idea of being so close to the Sun and its
terrible raging heat. This is a thoroughly irrational fear, she
knows, because she is actually connected to the Sun, as
though she dangles high in the sky at the end of a thread that
reaches all the way up to the Sun itself.
A chorus of voices shouts in perfect unison:
Who the fuck are you?
He stops abruptly and mutters:
Oh no. Theyre synced.
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His uncertainty galvanises her, putting her instantly on

the alert. She sees a large machine with six fat, globular
wheels and perched up side by side on a bench behind some
controls are three large men, each with exactly the same
build, colour, and expression, each togged out in a head to toe
silver-suit.
She says as a question: Clones?
He nods and mutters: This is really careless, you
know. There is one rule regarding them that should always be
observed. And that is, never let sibling-clones operate
together. They always sync. Always.
The chorus of voices sing out again:
Come on now, natal, tell me who you are?
He turns away to the right, bringing his left arm up as
though to shield her from their view. He bends to her:
Im going to put you down on the slope. Stay out of
sight, if you can. These jokers can be pretty dangerous when
they get going.
The chorus of voices again:
Hey, Three, drive over there. I want to see what hes
up to.
There is the whine of powerful electric motors and the
crunching of super-dry grit and stones.
He bends lower. Damn. Look, Sophie, just keep your
head down, will you. If they catch on who you are therell be
a lot of trouble.
He goes back up the slope and walks towards the
approaching vehicle. Hes tall enough to look the clones
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straight in the eyes, and he deliberately shifts his gaze from

one pair of eyes to the next. He says as casually as he can:
Theyve allowed you to sync?
The vehicle judders to a halt. The clones begin to file
off the bench, moving in a perfectly matched rhythm. They
say together, loudly as before:
What do you mean, natal? Were not fucking robots,
you know. What Five means, natal, is that weve got minds
of our own. I have, anyway. You fuck off, Two, and speak
for yourself. All you can do is scratch your balls to pass the
time. If it wasnt for Three and me theyd have melted you
down for soap years ago They are now standing in a row
facing him, not as tall as he, but each bigger, much bigger,
than he will ever be. And that other thing, that Three is
always bitching about, Two, I cant see what that has to
do
He raises his hands, palms out towards them. They stop
shouting immediately. He says,
It will be necessary to speak with your Caretaker,
clones.
Mentioning a clones controller always induces a
massive feeling of inferiority in it, and this occasion is no
exception. But, while the three clones hang their heads
immediately, their muddy complexions paling with shame,
each of them has also produced its Flashrod. He can only say:
My task here has the greatest priority. Thats why I
must speak to your Caretaker. I will have only the highest
praise for each of you.
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Does this gross flattery work? Actually, it never works.

The clones ego has no abode, so the unfortunate creature is
incapable of vanity. They stamp their right feet
simultaneously and begin shouting again:
I think we have an argument for making an arrest.
Three, you search him and Fuck off, Im not getting in reach
of that Do it yourself Two, if youre so sure of yourself.
They stutter into silence. He steps forward, deliberately
coming closer to the three hulking brutes. Meanwhile, she has
made it back to the top of the slope. She is gasping for breath
and her legs are trembling again. She sees what is going on,
that the three clones are armed and that he is walking up to
them in his dogged earnest way. She shouts, her voice thin
and wavering after all her exertions:
Will you bottle-babes shut up!
He swings around at once to face her, aghast that she
should insult the clones in this way. Calling them bottlebabes is about the worst thing you can do, reminding them
that they were grown in jars while everyone else had the
comfort of a real womb. The clones, for their part are
momentarily struck dumb. They wave their Flashrods at her,
but it is evident that they are properly flummoxed by her
direct approach.
He runs over to her and hisses:
Youre going to have to find cover somewhere,
Sophie. He shakes his head in part wonder, part annoyance.
Theyll surely kill you for what youve just said.
She steps around him and walks very slowly actually
walking as fast as she can without falling down towards the
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clones and raises her two thin arms above her head. The
clones are staring avidly at her, stunned and deeply curious at
the same time. Then they shout out together, pointing their
weapons at her head:
A fucking artificial! What the fuck are YOU doing
over here? Shoot her, shoot the bitch. We have to interrogate
her first. And the fucking natal. Dont forget that bollocks
either. He brought her up here. They get so excited that they
begin to walk in a circle, first back around their vehicle, then
over across to her, moving in a tight line, each with the same
emphatic jogging gait, stamping their heavily booted feet
down onto the dusty gritty ground. This has to be a
conspiracy. A fucking revolt against the Masters. Three, get
on the radio to HQ. We need reinforcements. We need to
stamp this out at the root.
She cuts across this nonsense by waving her arms and
shouting:
Will you all shut up for a minute!
They shut up immediately, but keep on jogging in their
circle. They are raising a lot of dust. She speaks in her more
normal voice this time, And stop that running round, will
you.
They stop running round, coming to a halt on the far
side of their vehicle from where she is standing. He comes up
behind her and says in a low voice, so that the clones cannot
hear:
Ask to speak to their Caretaker. We need to get them
under control first.
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She glances up at him, then shakes her head. She goes

over and climbs up onto the back of the vehicle. She nods to
the clones:
Right. Lets go.
Consternation is renewed in the clones, but it is as
though they have never experienced the feeling before. Faces
are suffused, they wave their weapons menacingly though
erratically and they shout in one voice:
What the fuck do you mean lets go? Who put you in
charge, you old slag? We will fucking go when I say we go.
There was to be more, but now they notice that she has
a wealth clock at her wrist. This signifies to them that she is
one of the respected Masters, whom they have been created
to serve. Yet it is a hard fact for them to accept. They each
point its right hand at her wrist each hand holding a
Flashrod and shout thunderously:
Where did you get that, you old bag? You want us to
believe that someone made someone like you into a Master.
The Masters are noble beings, in case you dont know. Calm
and devoted, with only the best interests of mankind in their
hearts, they reside in seclusion in their Towers from birth to
death. They do not wander around in grubby rags in the
company of scrubber natals from the deserts of the world.
She is leaning on the support bar that runs along
behind the bench on the vehicle, getting her breath back and
trying to subdue the shake in her legs. She would most like to
sit down, to close her eyes, to be perfectly still for a long
time. Instead, she says:
Look, either you drive this thing or I will.
267

Could she drive the machine? Shes finding it hard to

work how she gets from this side of the safety bar forward to
the controls. The bench extends the full width of the vehicle,
so she will have to dismount and remount the machine. She
knows she is too weary even to try this.
The clones are quiet because they are trying to have an
argument. At least one of the clones wants to get on with it
and drive the Master back to the Base. This is evident in their
stuttery body language, where each attempt to step forward is
immediately countered by a tug backwards, so that the clones
are as though dancing in a line, jerking forwards then back
again in a fast staccato rhythm.
How long could this go on? No reason why it should
not continue till the clones drop dead through exhaustion.
Something will be needed to break the impasse.
That something is the natal coming forward to
volunteer to drive the vehicle for her. He has his hand up to
attract her attention and he is saying in a loud firm voice,
wanting to appear decisive in this matter:
Look, Sophie, I can drive us right up to the Spires, if
you want.
Well, the clones break their dance routine and set out
towards him at a smart trot, a stomping gait that generates a
ground pulsation that even she can feel up on the vehicle. In
fact, it so unsettles her that she lets herself sink down onto the
vehicles platform, her legs buckling under her just like that.
The clones are hurrying to put themselves between the
natal and their machine, trundling in a shallow arc while
maintaining their line abreast exactly. They are silent at first,
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all their energy concentrated on moving into position as

quickly as possible. Then they get close enough to get their
first whiff of him. They shout out, deeply scandalised:
Hey, natal, you SMELL! They exaggerate their
response, of course, each tossing its head with exactly the
same gesture of revulsion. Oh man, do you pong! Now they
each express a triumphant contempt, upper lip curled just so,
eyebrows arched just so. What would you expect from
someone who spends his life up to his neck in the shit from
the rendering plant over there.
Now they are in position between the natal and the
machine. The natal, however, is still aiming to get aboard it.
He continues on towards the clones and they in turn intensify
their charade of deep disgust. He says to them, in
explanation:
I had not time this morning for my toilet. Sophie will
not be restrained. He points towards her crouched on the
back of the machine, one hand still clutching the safety rail,
eyes tightly closed as she fights the nausea.
It is the name that diverts the clones this time. They
stare at her crumpled figure and then let loose a chorus of
braying laughter, utterly forced and false. They shout,
pointing at her:
SOPHIE! You think this old bitch is Sophie? Man,
what a complete fucking fool you are to believe that. You
obviously dont know Sophia. She is sweet and considerate,
all-wise and all-forgiving. Sophia is merciful to us clones.
She cherishes the artificials and admonishes the natals. Didnt
they teach you even that out in the bush?
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He stops in his tracks. Its his turn to be stunned.

What are you talking about? This woman is called
Sophie because her true name in unknown. Sophie is a
character in reality. He now tries to be sarcastic thus
betraying the lamentable influence of the clones on his
impressionable nature: Didnt you know that, bin-brains?
The clones respond with a dramatic dismissal, waving
him away rhetorically with their left hands:
Shows what you know, nature boy. We know Sophia,
Mother of the World. They pause for dramatic effect, and
when they resume, they speak for the first time in a more
normal tone, an indication of their deep worshipful regard for
this woman: We even know where she lives, stick-boy.
He is completely thrown by these revelations, his own
convictions weak through lack of practice. He is unnerved so
far as his own knowledge is concerned, but the strength of his
feelings for poor Sophie as she lies broken on the machine
are if anything stronger than before. He makes a gesture of
surrender, of resignation even of submission to the
clones, then sidesteps them and jumps up onto the machine.
Thus the clones experience of victory over a natal a
unique experience for this unfortunate trio does not last
very long at all. They have barely time for the merest taste of
what it means to be one up on someone else before they are
screaming in their more usual outrage.
He is beside himself with joy, seated now at the
controls of the vehicle. More delighted even that the controls
are so simple green button for GO, red button for STOP,
and a little crossbar for controlling direction he just goes
270

ahead and presses the green button. A tinny voice from the
control box says:
Please insert your control stick. The appropriate slot
on the little dashboard is flashing blue. The voice says again:
Please insert your control stick.
He doesnt grasp what has happened at once, his finger
still pressing the green button, the machine still asking for the
insertion of the control stick. Then the clones get around to
shouting again:
Huh! Think you can just drive it off like that, do you?
Well, you need this one clone holds up the little plastic
stick, the other two clones hold up their right hands, each
folded as though grasping the stick and you dont have
one, do you? The last phrase comes out especially loud,
forced ribaldry in their voices.
He has at last taken his finger off the green button. The
blue light stops flashing. He sits quietly for a moment,
thinking, ignoring the clones jeering. Then he says, once the
clones have run out of things to shout at him.
Well, then, you had better give me that stick.
The clones are horrified.
We cant do that, you idiot. We are responsible for the
machine. So only we can drive it.
He nods at hearing this. He stands up awkwardly,
because there is not much room between the bench and the
control panel reaches down behind and hoists her up and
sets her sitting on the bench beside him. He pats her back and
tells encouragingly:
You bear up now, Sophie. Were almost there.
271

Having her sitting beside him like this though she is

slumped against him fills him with new confidence. He
leans over towards the clones, who seem to be waiting for
him to answer them, and says in what can only be interpreted
as a patronising tone:
I need to get dear Sophie to shelter as quickly as
possible. Therefore, I insist that you surrender the control
stick to me. He pauses, then thinks he has not said enough,
and has time to add before the clones react: Be sure that I
will report your cooperation your enthusiastic cooperation
with us in this matter.
The clones stare at him in complete disbelief, blood
suffusing their faces. Then they break down in unison, tears
sparking up from their eyes, even snot dribbling from their
noses in seconds. They are simply overwhelmed by what they
experience as their utter defeat. The bawling is very loud.
They fall together onto their knees, fists pressed to their eyes,
and cry wholeheartedly.
He is nonplussed. What can he do now? He could go
and take the stick from the thoroughly distracted clones. But
that seems an unfair thing to do; besides, he doesnt know
where to go. He says to her at his side:
Sophie, I may need your help here. I dont know what
to do now.
She revives herself to some extent. Being seated helps.
Being suffused by the warmth of his body helps even more.
She looks around. She hardly notices the whinging clones,
seeing that an old man is shuffling towards them from the
right. She pokes the natal in the side and points.
272

You can ask him for help.

Reluctant to descend from the machine, he stands up in
order to gain the old mans attention. The old man at first
seems not to notice him, having eyes only for the clones
huddled now in a pile on the ground. But he does say,
obviously addressing the two of them on the vehicle:
I could see it coming. The poor things are not really
up to confrontations. I tell them not to be so challenging
because they wont win, but does that stop them? I mean,
they are so stupid and headstrong.
He stands over the clones for a moment, shaking his
head, then he says, touching each of them on the shoulder in
turn: Alright, boys. You did everything you had to do. Now,
get up on the back of the patrol cart and well go home
again.
The clones clamber to their feet with alacrity, nodding
all the time in the old mans direction. He herds them gently
towards the flat back of the cart, ignoring the baleful stares
they throw up at the natal. But he does say conversationally:
Well, it is their duty, after all, you know. I think
myself that grouping them which we must do, otherwise
they just pine away and die only reinforces their individual
behaviour.
The natal is bewildered: You mean you deliberately
sync them?
The old man has got the clones up onto the cart and has
them seated in such a way that they wont easily fall off
again. He comes back along the cart to the front.
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We can do nothing else. As I said, otherwise they just

pine if left alone. Even two together are not enough company
for them.
He gestures that the natal should move along the
bench, then he clambers heavily up beside him. He reaches
under the dashboard and produces a stick. Showing it to
them, he says, Always keep a spare. Just in case. He smiles
a wizened smile. His teeth are brilliantly white. Now, lets
go and put the clones to bed for a few hours. Then theyll be
just fine.
The cart chugs along under the heavy load, its motor
straining loudly. The old man steers it in the direction he has
come from. Once the machine has settled down to grinding
over the littered surface, he takes up the earlier subject:
We find the clones are happiest when grouped in
threes or fours. Anything much over that and they become
completely unpredictable. Even the handier groupings can
lead to problem. If there is a conflict in their actions, the
impasse can lead to deaths.
The natal interrupts: Oh, we saw that happen, you
know. One of them wanted to take us to their base, while the
other two didnt. They just stood there jerking back and
forwards.
The old man nods, Yes, thats exactly it. Thats what
happens.
Some ruins are coming into view, spread out on the
wide platform. The old man points.
A castle, they called it. A fortification, that is. Nearly
two thousand years old, you know. About the only structure
274

to have survived the Flash. He grimaces. Just crumbling

away now.
He drives the cart along a narrow track among the
ruins. He returns to the earlier subject.
You know, the plan at first was to mix them across
sibling lines, but it was found that they either argued and
fought incessantly, or just pined away. Oh, you can ask if
creating the clones was such a good idea in the first place.
Everyone has done that from the beginning. And it is true that
millions literally millions, because no doubt it seemed such
a good idea at the time were in existence before the real
problems emerged. He points behind without looking round.
And they are still producing them, as you can see. But the
truth is that we need them. Most artificials wont take orders
from anyone, and as for natals The pause is heavy, the old
man bowing slightly in his direction. Well, you know all
about that yourself.
The natal promptly asks: Know what? I was raised out
in the desert. I know very little about clones. Or about
artificials, for that matter.
The old man blows his breath. They are clearing the
ruins and are following the track with an improved surface
towards a small cubical structure set into the rising ground
over to their left.
Well, in a word, my friend. The natals want to tell
everyone else what to do. He smiles a chilly smile for the
natal.
All the natal can say is, Oh.
275

She suddenly says, still slumped against the natal, eyes

closed:
I am very thirsty.
The old man seems surprised to hear her talk, perhaps
not having noticed her before now. He glances around the
natal, then asks:
Whos your friend.
The natal sits bold upright as though coming to
attention and lays a protective arm around her shoulder. He
speaks slowly, obviously trying to elicit a more respectful
response from the minder:
This is Sophie. She has important business in the
Spires.
The old man leans around again and studies her more
closely. He sees a skinny little woman in a dirty gown who
looks close to death. He is even more sceptical this time.
Her? She looks about ready for the render.
The natal shakes his head slowly, hoping to appear
sage.
Oh no. You wouldnt want to underestimate Sophie.
She has remarkable powers of recovery. He pauses. Seeing
that the old man is a little bit impressed by what he has told
him, he takes the opportunity to go further. She is also
remarkably knowledgeable. She is on an important mission to
the Masters. Unfortunately, his voice falters on the last
word, thus betraying the fact that he is bluffing.
The old man doesnt bother to take note of the bluffing.
He simply laughs out in a cordial manner.
276

Dont tell me you believe the guff they teach the

unfortunate jar-boys. Next you will be talking about the
Queen of Heaven.
The natal is of course completely deflated by this
response. However, she chooses this moment to interject,
opening her eyes at last.
I am also very hungry.
She turns her head towards the old man.
Where is the domicile?
There is no authority in her voice something the old
man has unconsciously been looking for, despite his ridicule
of the natal but her rock-solid assurance impresses him
even more. In a world where the human race has long ago
lost all confidence in itself, her blunt conviction is a wonder.
He answers her factually, pointing.
Its straight ahead.
She sighs and lies back against the natal. The natal
responds immediately to the sigh by pressing her into his
side. His pleasure is such that he sighs too. He feels very
much better.
An opening is appearing in the building they approach,
two panels sliding back, one to the left, the other to the right.
The machine suddenly says:
Staff number three four four cee is unobtainable at
present. You should contact staff number zero five six eff
instead. Thank you.
The old man hisses. He hits a button on the dashboard:
You were told not to relay routine signals. Under his
breath, he murmurs: Stupid machines.
277

The old man is so annoyed with what has just

happened that he is unaware that the cart is entering the drive
bay, but a loud buzz seems to alert the cart itself, which stops
pretty suddenly half in and half out of the bay. Everyone is
thrown forward. Both the old man and the natal become
jammed up against the control dash, the clones are bundled
up against the safety bar at the back of the bench. Only she
goes flying forward, landing in a sprawl on the deck of the
bay.
A very loud klaxon begins to sound somewhere within
the building. Almost at once a trolley machine appears
through an opening in the gloom at the back. It shoots across
towards her, its tentacle arms snaking forward to seize her.
She of course fights it off, trying at the same time to get to
her feet. The natal has recovered from his shock. He sees her
struggling with the machine. He leaps over the dashboard,
lands on the trolley machine at such an angle as to force it
over onto its side.
However, the trolley has not given up. Its tentacles
have a secure grip on her, and though it lies helpless on its
side, it continues to reel her in towards itself. The natal is
getting wild, unable to uncoil the tentacle arms. She fights
too, but her arms and legs are securely bound by the coiling
arms.
It takes all this time for the old man who is used by
and large to a quiet life to realise what is happening. He is
at first angry that the natal has tried to damage the medical
trolley, then he sees the larger picture but of course doesnt
278

understand why the woman is resisting in such a desperate

manner.
He gets down from the cart and goes over to her and
says:
The med only wants to help you. Cant you see that?
She cannot speak. Her exertion has set her throat
burning again. But the natal says:
She is terrified of the machine. He straightens up so
as to address the old man directly. Sweat is running off his
face on to his chest, creating new furrows through the dried
vomit there. For some reason that I dont understand.
The old man shakes his head at hearing this. He says,
reaching as though to quieten her with a pat of his hand on
her head:
How strange. I can understand hating them. I dont
care for them myself. But fear? I mean, they are under our
control.
The trolley has drawn her right over to its couch. She is
completely exhausted again and lies supine in the tentacles
embrace, breathing deeply, a ragged rattle in her throat.
The old man shakes his head again. She is near to
death, you know. Its hard to see what the machine can do for
her.
The natal is suddenly beside himself. She must stay
alive! He points at the trolley: Tell the machine to release
her. I will carry her.
The old man nods, helplessly, but reaches across and
presses a button on the machine. The natal swoops at once
and picks her up in his arms. He shouts at the old man:
279

Where do I take her? Quickly!

The old man beckons for him to follow and heads off
towards the opening the medical trolley had come through.
Now there is a short corridor, lit by a low blue light, with
doorways on either side. The old man says conversationally:
I have been in charge here for over thirty years, you
know, and I have never known such outrageous events as
have occurred today. I admit that I am merely an artificial
and so should be immune to such upset but I think having
spent most of my life looking after the boys has made me
perhaps over-sensitive.
He turns now towards a doorway and it slides open to
let them through. It is a hygiene chamber. He points and says:
Strip her and leave her there. The machine will treat
her.
The natal is scandalised.
No! She is not one of your wretched clones, to be
treated like some kind of beast. I will attend to her. You can
go now.
He says the last with a surprising authority no doubt
the admission by the old man that he is an artificial helps
boost his confidence.
The old man merely nods. Well, I have to look after
the boys anyway. Then he does leave his movements
obviously habitual not at all fazed by the natals
assertiveness.
The natal undresses both of them. He sighs at the state
of her body, the blotching of the skin where the gown has
280

chaffed, the swelling of her joints, the dried blood all down
her inner thighs. He calls, Begin. Full medical.
Nothing happens. He calls again: Begin your
procedure. Undertake a full medical examination.
Still nothing happens. Then he notices a small control
panel on the wall opposite the doorway. The controls, luckily,
are clearly described. Medical treatment is a blue button. He
presses it.
The machine says: Some preparatory cleaning will be
necessary. Please press the appropriate button.
He searches the panel and finds a button labelled
Complete Service. He presses this button.
Complete Service is very thorough. First they are
washed down and stimulated to full evacuations. Then there
are the prickings and scrapings, the internal probes. Every
organ is subjects to tests, each sense examined in turn. He has
to support her through most of this procedure, turning her
body about as required by the busy machines. He is surprised
at first to find himself subject to these examinations, but his
resistance is brushed aside without a word.
At the end the machine says: The woman requires
further intensive treatment. Please do not interfere with the
medical cart this time.
He is startled by this direct admonishment. So much
so, he stands aside when a trolley eases into the chamber and
lifts her onto its couch. But he does follow when it trundles
off down the corridor to another chamber at the end. Here she
is transferred to a couch surrounded by very elaborate
machinery and controls. He is surprised to see pipes inserted
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into the sockets at her navel. The machine says: Treatment

will continue for seven hours. The subject must be left
undisturbed.
The natal understands this to mean that he should
leave. He is reluctant to do so. He says, I will watch over
her.
She is lying flat out on the couch, arms by her side.
She grunts when the sphincters in her navel are broached, her
eyes opening wide with momentary fear. He bends over her,
his hand laid on her brow:
No, dear Sophie, its only the machine healing you.
Relax now and sleep. I will watch for you.
She says, hoarse, her voice very weak: You must
consider your own welfare, natal.
He blushes hugely when he hears this, thrilled that she
should consider his wellbeing. He draws his hand down her
cheek, his thumb coming to rest on her lips.
When you sleep, dear. Only when you sleep.
She nods at this. She thinks sleep will be difficult to
find in the universe of heat and pain she now inhabits.
Shes wrong, of course.

282

The Lord Bedford is returning from todays battlefield.

He is afoot, helmet under his arm, body armour rattling
loosely. Each pad of a foot is accompanied by a squelchy
sound, the result of the blood that has collected in his boots
and which is slowly congealing there. In fact, blood clings to
most of the surface of his armour, with gouts of clotted blood
enmeshed in the chain mail that protects his joints at
shoulders and groin.
Behind him there is a string of servants and soldiers
carrying the remainder of his battle gear. First in line of
course is his trusty esquire, who carries his shield on
prominent display. The shield is decorated with his coat of
arms, actually the armorial of his family, the Plantagenets
quarterly: 1st and 4th, azure three fleurs-de-lys or; 2nd and
3rd, gules, three leopards or; suitably labelled as befits a
younger brother of a King of England. Then comes the lance
bearer, who has three long wooden lances to manage which
he is not doing very well. Then a soldier in a scuffed jerkin
obviously pressed into service for the occasion carrying his
sword balanced across one shoulder, his mace balanced on
the other which he is carrying with a cocky insouciance.
Next comes another soldier a fine strong young man who
must needs bear his saddle, a large awkward structure with
heavy stirrups and an enormous elaborately chased pommel.
The saddle is thickly coated with by now congealed blood,
which has spread onto the soldier in liberal quantities. There
are a few more soldiers coming up the rear bearing various
other accoutrements; the dukes great cloak, for instance, his
large spurs and the like.
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Being in the field for the duration, The Lord Bedford

has quarters in an expansive layout of marquees, tents,
awnings and covered walkways, all set in the grounds of a
now severely degraded chateau. It is a delightful
environment: many flowering bushes, pathways flanked with
an abundance of lavender, and a large orchard weighed down
with apples and pears of a number of varieties most of
which are unavailable in The Lord Bedfords native England.
There is even a small lake, on which white swans and strange
looking ducks float in the sunshine.
Today, however, The Lord Bedford doesnt have much
time for all this glamour. His feet, for instance, are horribly
sticky, and feel as though they are turning into lardy
puddings. Being obliged to walk does not help matters;
worse, walking seems in an even more horrible way to
serve to knead his feet and so speed up the process of turning
them into puddings. Other matters bother him; many other
matters. But The Lord Bedford is a man of many matters, the
virtual ruler of three or four lands, a man who could,
Providence allowing, create an Empire to rival that of his
ancestor, Henry Angevin.
Of course, in his more sober moments when reality
obtrudes more than it usually manages to do The Lord
Bedford knows that this is so much idle nonsense, that is,
poppycock. The truth is that The Lord Bedford believes he
will die soon, that he will leave no progeny, and that he will
be remembered for all eternity. Which is the better, he has
often asked himself, a long life as ruler of lands, or a short
life with great fame to follow? He knows very well that to
284

have some great deed of his written down in some book his
name forever linked to that deed is better than appearing
along with the rest of the royalty lumpen in this genealogical
list or another with perhaps a Roman numeral after his
name to further diminish him.
The Lord Bedford has now arrived at the entrance to
his extensive quarters. An overdressed lackey appears and
with a lot of bowing and mincing manages to divert his
Grace around to the back entry dedicated to the military
aspect of his career, which can better cope with his filthy
condition. So The Lord Bedford and his entourage go around
by the rosebushes, a heady display of red and extremely
yellow blooms to nod and wave as he passes. He is expected.
Already, heavy rush matting has been laid out in the open
area before the entry. His ostler, stablemen, and military
dressers are waiting for him, lined up according to rank and
seniority on either side of the entry.
The Lord Bedford breaks out in relief at the sight of the
ostler,
Oh, Harry, but Veronica is dead, slaughtered by
French artillery!
The ostler shows every sign of upset and despondency,
most of all by waving his thick arms high in the air. He
shouts out in grief,
Oh my Lord, what a dastardly commotion for you
today!
Whatever about the ostlers show of sympathy. The
Lord Bedfords emotion is genuine. He is so distracted by his
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grief that he struggles with the dressers who are attempting to

prise his helmet loose from under his arm. He cries out:
Oh, Harry, the ball landed so far away, you know. But
then it shattered and split away in all directions. Poor
Veronica got a particular evil shard in the neck. The grief is
too much for The Lord Bedford, who breaks down in a flood
of tears, his next words smothered as a result: Oh, Harry,
right through the dear beasts neck. All her blood simply
gushed out. The Lord Bedford raises his arms: Just look at
the state of me, Harry. I am drenched in the poor girls
blood!
Meanwhile, the stablemen have managed to persuade
the soldier bearing the mucky saddle to carry it a few paces
more out onto one of the many lawns that dot the chateaus
demesne. Once it is safely settled on thick sod, they call for
pails of clear water, which are to flush the saddle clean. All
without the stablemen once being contaminated by the
horses sticky blood.
Ah, but pity the poor dressers, who are obliged to
manhandles the good Dukes armour, unstrapping straps
coated on all surfaces with the congealed mess, unknotting
knots buried in the appalling goo, and worst of all faced with
the prospect of scraping the souffls of congealed blood from
the surfaces of the armour. It will take days to clean up this
mess.
The ostler has by now absorbed The Lord Bedfords
sad news and being a plain, practical man asks the grand
Duke the following question:
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And pray, my Lord, who will you mount for your next
foray?
The question stops The Lord Bedford short. It is a very
good question. For a small second or two, he is completely
unsure of what he will say, then he opens his mouth and out
comes:
Oh, Harry, who else but Rosie. He bends as far
towards the ostler as the ministrations of the dressers will
allow, a sign of conviviality, even confidence, in this: You
know she is a game mount, eh, my fellow?
The ostler betrays his surprise, but can cover that
quickly enough so the somewhat slower witted royal does not
notice. He says loudly, ejaculating forcefully in an attempt to
appear jolly (the ostlers habitual response to enforced
warmth of heart):
Rosie, my Lord? Aye, shes a game one and no doubt
about that. But you know, Sire, that she is pastured above
near Rooan?
The Lord Bedford is very surprised to hear this news.
Oh, Harry, is that so? Momentarily glum, he looks
ready to sulk. But, you know, Harry, I do look forward to
riding her tomorrow. Such a big game girl, you know.
The ostler hastily concurs, not wanting to have to
endure one of the The Lord Bedfords sulks today of all days:
Oh certainly, but she is a game beast, my Lord. He
pauses, one of his more sickly sweet grins on his face a sign
that he is not about to please his master. Tomorrow, my
Lord, need I remind you of this, is the feast of the
Assumption. The French wont come out tomorrow, Sire.
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The Lord Bedford frowns and then smirks. What a nice

way the ostler has put it. Then he frowns again:
Oh dear. And today has been such a disappointment.
He looks up at the cloudless blue sky, looking for the sun.
Ah, well into the afternoon. The Lord Bedford looks glum
again. He shakes himself mightily. The dressers panic
momentarily, believing their Lord is fed up with their
attentions and is about to turn temperamental with them. But
no. The Lord Bedford is merely expressing his frustration. He
says acidly:
Then it is the hunt, I fear.
The ostler sighs with relief, glad that The Lord Bedford
can today surmount this crisis without too much drama.
That is so, I am afraid, my Lord. He pauses, cringing
before his master in that contemptible way he has perfected.
They say that boar will be hunted. In honour of the Virgin,
my Lord.
The Lord Bedford stares at his ostler. He echoes
vacantly, Boar? Then he says to the dressers, in the mildest
tones:
Arent you finished yet?
The Lord Bedford detests boar. The noisiest, dirtiest,
most foul creature that a man can hunt. He absolutely dreads
having to endure the smell of the pig shite.
Ah, but, my Lord, the ostler adds, bending forward
like a merchant about to clinch the sale, it is French boar.
The Lord Bedford is only mildly affected by this
insinuation.
Its still pig shite, Harry.
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The dressers have at last managed to remove most the

The Lord Bedfords armour. All that remains now are his
large, bulky and heavy boots. A dresser runs off and return
with a narrow bench. The Lord Bedford is manoeuvred to sit
on this, his bloody drawers squelching loudly as he does so.
Then the The Lord Bedfords Armourer appears on the
scene, followed by a couple of his armoury assistants.
Everyone stops what he is doing just to watch the entry of the
Armourer. The Armourer has a mighty presence. Once The
Lord Bedfords Serjeant-at-Arms until he committed a
never specified transgression the Armourer is six and a half
feet tall and dressed for the occasion today in a tunic and
apron of heavy black leather, with a tight band of black
leather around his cropped head. He sniffs but once when he
encounters the bloody mess around his Lord. Congealed
blood means black puddings to the Armourer. His nose tells
him an experienced fighting man that the blood he smells
is the blood of a mare, which is known to make the best black
pudding for a fighting man. A breakfast of fried black
pudding made with mares blood and you are ready and able
for a days hard work on the battlefield.
The Armourer nods to himself at these pleasant
reflections. The Lord Bedford, however, clouds over upon
sight of his Armourer and breaks into renewed lament,
Oh, Freddie, my good Veronica was destroyed by the
French today!
The Armourer is staring at all the congealed mares
blood that saturates his Lords shirt and drawers. He can
think only of the waste, his mouth suddenly dry at the
289

knowledge of what has been missed. But habit is strong

enough for him to mouth:
Ah, my Lord, such a wayward tragedy this is for you.
For us all, my Lord, indeed.
The curious intonation in the last sentence a sign of
the Armourers vast regret is such that the assembled
company bow their heads for a second, as though a priest had
just issued a blessing.
The Lord Bedford must complete his tale of woe:
A French ball, Freddie, would you believe. It shattered
on impact and a shard pierced the poor beasts neck. The
memory is again too much for The Lord Bedford. He slumps
on the bench, arms slack on his bloody thighs. Oh, the blood,
Freddie, so much blood it was unbelievable.
The Armourer can only nod at this tale of utter waste.
How many times had he himself seen this happen. How many
times he himself had been the agent of such waste, priding
himself on his ability to behead a horse with one stroke of his
great Irish sword.
Meanwhile, the dressers have been hovering about at
The Lord Bedfords feet, awaiting the opportunity to begin
the heavy task of removing his boots. Once the Armourer
resumes his train over towards the soldiers bearing The Lord
Bedfords arms, they seize their chance and get down to
work. Heavy work it is too, with no help at all from the
sulking Duke, they on their knees in a crowd around one
boot, getting in each others way in their eagerness to get the
job done as quickly as possible.
290

Then the boot begins to dislodge with a loud sticky

and slurping sound and the stench is such that all but one of
the dressers run off, their gorges heaving of a sudden. The
one who remains is more than adequate to the task. He takes
a firm grip on the boot and lets himself fall back onto his
broad bottom.
The boot comes free of The Lord Bedford with a loud
plop.
The sound is enough to attract everyones attention.
There is the dresser seated on the mat, boot in hand, a
complacent expression of satisfaction on his wide face.
The Lord Bedford says, chortling in sudden good
humour, And now the other one, my good man?
And the second boot it is. The dresser gets to his feet
with surprising agility consider what a heavy man he is
and embraces the remaining boot with his great hams. One
pull, then another and another with loud sticky and slurping
sounds and that boot comes off with another loud plop.
The dresser is again seated on the mat.
The Lord Bedford is truly delighted now, thinking how
wonderfully earnest this little man is. He asks, a genuine
simplicity prompting him at first:
And who are you, my man?
The dresser is still seated on the mat, The Lord
Bedfords second boot in his hands, an open, nave
expression on his face. Well, my Lord, most call me Tom
Clarkson. Thems that knows me, that is, you see.

291

The Lord Bedford is listening intently, his translation

of the mans language helped a great deal by the explanatory
rider. He nods once he understands sufficiently.
So, what manor are you, Tom Clarkson?
Why, my Lord, over by Barcombe. Thats down
Wiltshire way, lest you dont know seeing how far we are
from there.
The Lord Bedford nods once he understands this.
And what land do you hold, my good Tom Clarkson?
Ah, my Lord, that would be Netherholt. That be close
by Bottomley?
Again The Lord Bedford nods once he understands.
Good land there, Tom?
The dresser is at once happy with the memory.
Oh aye, my Lord. Tis dry when we need it dry and
wet when its good for it. If you see what I mean.
The Lord Bedford nods now with a deep satisfaction.
He then draws himself up.
Well, then, Tom my man. I have a task for you.
The dresser is on his feet again, a very practiced roll
off his bottom and a complicated play with his knees getting
him up very quickly. Another dresser one of the more fainthearted runs up and takes The Lord Bedfords boot from his
grasp.
The Lord Bedford has been eyeing the dresser, now he
says:
My, Tom, but you are a fine block of a man.
The dresser smiles modestly, lowering his eyes
momentarily. Block is a good word for him: five foot tall,
292

five foot wide, and five foot thick, he stands on powerful

legs, powerful arms hanging away from his sides, thick neck
supporting his small head. He says, as though in explanation:
Need a good brace when the bulls get giddy, my
Lord.
The Lord Bedford laughs out heartily at this sally,
waving his hands gaily, his habitual persistence appearing
here as the kind of earnestness that a peasant might easily
understand. And for a moment his face does display that
ambiguous simplicity that can indicate foolishness as easily
as extreme cunning.
There is now a moment of quiet, in which it becomes
apparent to everyone that the Armourer and his assistants
have taken The Lord Bedfords weapons into their care. They
are in fact processing across the matting towards the
Armoury, a sturdy and secure wooden structure built on the
front lawn of the chateau. The Armourer is to the front, of
course, The Lord Bedfords sword held in both fists by the
hilt, blade pointing downwards. The Armourer looks
extremely solemn, like an Archbishop approaching his
Cathedral and bearing the full regalia of his dignity.
The Lord Bedford addresses his next remark to the
dresser just as the Armourer moves out of sight behind a
brightly striped awning:
Well, Tom Clarkson, this is what I want you to do.
First off, I want you to procure the sharpest knife you can.
Then I want you to cut away these underclothes of mine. Do
you think you could do that, Tom?
293

Instantly upon hearing this request, the dresser gives

The Lord Bedford a salute. Shouting out, Say no more, my
Lord, he toddles away through an opening into a small tent
on the far side of the matting. And no more need be said. The
dresser reappears with a long, gleaming blade. The Lord
Bedford rises at his approach and presents himself backways.
A couple of careful slashes and The Lord Bedford stands
naked, covered now only by a thick coating of dried blood.
Now the other dressers appear accompanied by
soldiers obviously pressed into this service each bearing a
deep pail filled with water. They process past The Lord
Bedford, each upending the contents of his bucket over the
Dukes head.
Then The Lord Bedford is passably clean and so in a fit
condition to enter his quarters. This he does alone, without a
backward glance. It is only as the light dims under the striped
awnings that he realises he had been very uncomfortable in
the bright glare of the sunlight. August sunlight in the Loire
valley is very brilliant, bringing the air to a stunning
transparency. Not for The Lord Bedford very clear air and
bright light, which can trap one in the mundane present. No.
There must be shadow, which though it allows the past to
obtrude most of all permits the future to compose itself.
Then the familiar scent of lavender and rose as The
Lord Bedford enters the marquee that serves as an informal
antechamber. The light is low, seeping in through the
openings let into each side of the tent. The air is coloured red
and lavender, very French colours derived from the
furnishings borrowed from the chateau, especially the
294

wonderful wall hangings depicting an elaborate and beautiful

garden.
A servant appears in The Lord Bedfords view, coming
as though from nowhere.
Ah, Pierre, begins The Lord Bedford, slipping at once
into that curiously inflected language of theirs that the
English insist upon calling French. The servant at once shows
signs of deep concentration as he labours to understand the
Master. As you can see, my dear Pierre, I am in need of
some clothing.
Once he understands, the servant looks The Lord
Bedford up and down with barely concealed distaste, then
turns away breathing a word that The Lord Bedford doesnt
quite understand and disappears through the opening in the
opposite wall of the tent. The Lord Bedford speaks to the
retreating servant as though in reply, his words blurting out:
Oh, I had such a tragic morning, you know, Pierre.
My mount The servant in gone from view, and besides
as The Lord Bedford belatedly realises the servant is
himself French.
Oh, what to do at a moment such as this? The Lord
Bedford does so want to be French; at least French in the best
way possible for a Norman-Welsh Englishman. He finds he
has clasped his hands together and becoming aware of their
clasp tightens his fingers embrace of one another. He
agonises thus for a few moments, then sets off after the
servant down a bright passageway protected by a cheerful red
and white striped awning. This gives way into a somewhat
smaller tent with heavy plain hangings and a smouldering
295

russet carpet, deep couches along the walls, each littered with
soft cushions covered with gold-ochre velvet. A set of low
tables defines the way across this chamber to another
passageway. Its hard to see the way in the low light, but The
Lord Bedford in any case is thinking of softness and comfort,
of the benefits of a mild and indulgent climate even as he
stumbles along.
At the end of the next passageway, The Lord Bedford
arrives at his own private quarters, and there is the servant
busy in a far corner, by his bed, laying out fresh clothing for
him. Seeing him again renews in The Lord Bedford the
impulse to share his troubles with another mortal being. He
begins in gushing lament:
Oh, Pierre, but the most awful tragedy occurred this
morning. The Lord Bedford wrings his hands; the servant
continues with his task, his back to his Lord. But the finest
mare in my stable a magnificent creature out of Red Corsair
by The Flaming Mark she cost one hundred pounds
Antwerp when only a foal
The servant finishes his task and leaves the tent.
The Lord Bedford is astounded. He shouts in his best
voice not something he is used to doing off the battlefield:
PIERRE!
Silence, just silence ensues.
And how many Frenchmen did you kill today, my
Lord?
The Lord Bedford swings about, knowing at once who
addresses him, feeling as always the confusion she rouses in
him. But he says anyway in his natural outrage:
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Did you see that, Jehanne? That servant walked away

from me even as I spoke to him. Are all your servants as
impertinent? Ive a good mind to have him gutted. An object
lesson to the others, you know.
Oh, my Lord, do you think only of killing good honest
Frenchmen?
The tone is not respectful, not even the least bit
ingratiating. The Lord Bedford faces her. With her military
bearing, she would pass for a sturdy young esquire of good
family, though she is only a peasants daughter, uneducated
and rough. The Lord Bedford is terrified of her, though of
course he will never show this. He replies in the best
haughtiness he can manage in the British French he has:
Why not, my dear, when they are all rebels?
She smiles, her big mouth in her big face opening to
show her perfect, strong teeth. She brushes a broad hand
down over the soldiers coarse jerkin she wears dyed in
glorious French blue:
How can rebels crown their King where true Kings of
France have always been crowned? Her face suddenly firms
up, green eyes steely, her cropped hair bristling. You murder
loyal subjects of the anointed King of France, my Lord, on
behalf of a grasping family that seems unable to sustain its
rule in any kingdom.
Oh, this is just too much! How much of this French
impertinence must he endure?
Henry will rule through justice, if let, but otherwise by
force of arms.
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The girl smirks, very French, very indifferent to

anothers feelings:
What arms, my Lord?
The Lord Bedford raises his naked arms, clenching his
hands into fists in annoyance:
These arms, you impertinent hussy, and the arms of
another million stout Englishmen!
Now the girl makes a moue, a gesture The Lord
Bedford has never managed to understand. Sometimes, it
seems to indicate ignorance, even stupidity in the sense of a
lack of interest in understanding, while other times it seems
little more than a jeer, a boorish rejection. Now it goads The
Lord Bedford into a fury, the surface of his body flushing
red:
In open battle, we will defeat you every time, Jehanne.
You cannot deny that.
She turns away, looking over towards the opening she
may leave through:
Yet lose the war, Bedford.
The Lord Bedford has lowered his arms. Now he
clenches and unclenches his fists repeatedly.
Never, he breathes fervently.
The girl enacts that throwaway laugh of the French
the should-I-care? laugh that so infuriates the foreigner and
saunters away.
We have our King. You have nothing.
And she does leave The Lord Bedfords chamber, an
unpleasant swagger, much what you would expect from an
arrogant soldier. Not for the first time, The Lord Bedford
298

wonders if she is actually the woman she claims to be. What

if this is not a plot to undermine the confidence of the
Plantagenets?
Oh, wishful thinking! He knows on the authority of his
own wife that she is indeed what she claims to be, a maiden
in the service of France. The Maid of France, indeed. The
Maid of God, no less.
Oh, what can he do? What can he do? The servant has
reappeared again as though from nowhere and is holding
towards him a pair of his wonderfully soft Bruges drawers.
Ah yes: get dressed. Yet always that instant of reservation:
his wish that his drawers were white, a pure white. Ecru, that
is what the French call the colour, a faintly dirty yellow.
However, The Lord Bedfords hose is of the finest
Lucca wool, dyed a truly brilliant vermillion. Then there is a
shirt of Laon linen, fresh and wonderful in bright green. We
pause here, as The Lord Bedford often does. The Lord
Bedford is convinced he has the right to wear an outer
garment coloured French Blue, as befits his dignity as the
Regent of France. There are a number of very fine cotehardies and doublets in his wardrobe in this colour, styled in
both the French and English manner the latter always worn
in England. However, the truth is that The Lord Bedford has
not yet dared to appear in France in Plantagenet France or
Valois France dressed in French Blue. A compromise, then.
His outer garment is invariably made of scarlet velvet a
colour chosen almost entirely for its expense but his little
shoes are made from leather dyed French Blue.
So there.
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Now Jehanne reappears even as The Lord Bedford

glances in that direction coming in by the opening she had
previously departed through. Behind her paces a young
female servant bearing a broad salver. The Lord Bedford
understands at once that there is a provocation here. Only one
kind of French woman takes The Lord Bedfords interest.
She is slight and gamine, with pallid skin and grey eyes, selfabsorbed in the way that increases the womans vulnerability.
This young serving girl is such a woman.
Jehanne says perhaps too loudly in the intimate space
of The Lord Bedfords private quarters: I have taken the
liberty, my Lord, of arranging some refreshments.
What to do? Is this true service or more insolence? The
Lord Bedford looks about his tent. The tapestries on his walls
taken from the master bedroom of the chateau show a
scene from a hunt. A group of horsemen are raising the cry as
a young buck is espied among a thicket of hazel. Their dogs
are leaping with joy. The hart seems only mildly surprised by
the intrusion.
The Lord Bedford says, Then perhaps you should join
me in this treat, my dear.
The young woman smiles her most plausible smile:
Ah, my Lord, this fare is too rich for my poor digestion.
Another smile, this time of something very close to irony.
But as you press me, so must I accept your kind invitation.
So the attractive young serving girl places the tray on a
convenient surface and withdraws, leaving only the faintest
fragrance of her young body. The lidded jug is hot. It
300

contains chocolate, very dark and very aromatic. The Lord

Bedford smiles.
Oh, my dear, but you do know my weaknesses.
The woman nods. That is not hard to achieve in so
public a man, my Lord.
The Lord Bedford is mildly rueful. So true, so true,
dear Jehanne.
She pours measures of the hot thick liquid into two
small bowls. Then she raises the lid on the silver box that sits
alongside the pot on the tray. The aroma of almond is at once
about them. The Lord Bedford smiles more broadly again.
You reward me, my dear Jehanne, for my omission
today?
The young woman smiles as she hands The Lord
Bedford a bowl.
Oh no, my Lord, I console you for your loss. Oh, and
another smile the less pleasant one that she can command:
After all, my Lord, the unfortunate mare was French also.
A wicked sally, indeed. The Lord Bedford must smile
in appreciation. He says, a little more tartly than he had
planned:
Your swordplay improves, my dear. Soon, you know,
you will be quite the courtier.
The Lord Bedford has no sooner spoken than he
realises how he has given the game away. He braces himself
for the girls tart response and all that will follow.
But she takes a finger of almond flavoured cake from
the box and offers it to The Lord Bedford. He, of course,
301

takes it with a slight bow. She takes a finger of cake for

herself.
Then they sip the hot chocolate, lips pursed against the
heat.
There is the weight of silence in these actions, as The
Lord Bedford well knows. Who will speak next? Will the
peasant girl forbear? The Lord Bedford grows afraid that she
will. He chews slowly on the dense cake, savouring the
almond though unease grows in him.
Nothing too much should be made of the fact that it is
The Lord Bedford who gives way. The forces arrayed against
him are very great overwhelmingly so though he himself
does not know who or what these forces are.
He points with a cup-bearing hand at the tapestries
lining the walls of his tent.
When you consider the labour and cost involved in
making these hangings, my dear, you might wonder why they
went to such trouble. There are small pages that tell the same
story at less cost and expense. And with greater beauty, if the
truth be told.
The girl tosses her head back in an amiable courtly
manner and observes with peasant candour:
They keep the heat in, my Lord. She pauses to sip
some more chocolate. You would need to burn your little
books to achieve the same end, yes? The tone is flip, very
much the tone of a street arab though incongruous in a
strapping peasant girl like Jehanne.
The Lord Bedford is irritated, though of course he
wont show this. He cannot resist pulling rank, even so,
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speaking in the testy pedantic tone of the school teachers in

his memory:
I was not referring to their function, my dear. He sips
his chocolate. In any case, good solid wainscoting would
serve better.
The girl has reached for another finger of cake, licking
sugar crystals from the corners of her mouth. She is nodding
in acknowledgement of what The Lord Bedford is saying.
Once she has the cake in her grasp, she replies:
Surely images are a vanity, my Lord?
The Lord Bedford reacts very badly to this question,
being a well-known collector of illuminated manuscripts. He
is spiteful in his reply, not yet aware thank to the emollient
influence of the chocolate that he is being manipulated:
I would not have thought of you as a radical, Jehanne.
Your churches are full of images and statues, which are
public images for the people.
She is chewing cake, sipping a little chocolate now and
then to enhance her enjoyment. Her voice is thick when she
replies:
Oh, my Lord, such images are for the children. To
show them the way, no more.
Now The Lord Bedford is becoming upset.
But they are not just idols, Jehanne. You see grown
men everywhere on their knees before those images. Surely
they are not all fools?
She raises her head, short square chin jutting, her eyes
widening as though she suddenly understand what The Lord
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Bedford is getting at. She flashes him one of her big smiles,
teeth gleaming through the chocolate patina.
Ah, yes. Well, you must know for yourself, my Lord.
Its all a matter of habit, as it were.
She takes up the pot and offers The Lord Bedford a
refill, which he immediately accepts. She tops herself up as
well. The Lord Bedford takes the opportunity to get another
almond finger for himself, saying as he does:
These little cakes are absolutely delicious, my dear.
You French are miracle workers in the kitchen.
She makes the familiar moue, accepting the
compliment but also suggesting that The Lord Bedford must
live a deprived existence if he is wonder-struck by such
ordinary fare.
There is silence, both chewing cake and sipping
chocolate the latter easier now that the thick liquid has
cooled somewhat. The silence is pregnant. It is obvious that
there is something to be said. The Lord Bedford finally
decides that the question had better be asked. This time,
though, he does not feel forced to speak as had been the
case previously. He is so thoroughly under the influence of
the chocolate that he is quite willing to expose himself.
What is it that I know, my dear: that images picture a
perfect world?
She is taken aback by this.
You mean Heaven, my Lord? Is Christ hanging on the
cross your idea of Heaven?
It is at this moment that The Lord Bedford feels the
first suspicion of the trap that awaits him. There are many
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ways of dealing with this trap available to him. But before he

has even begun to consider them, he says, the pleasure arising
in him for all the world like a surrender to a temptation:
I mean a world made perfect, my dear. We hold
memories of the primary state, of the Eden that lies at the
beginning. Even the theologians permit that belief. In our
images are projected those memories to act as guides for our
future actions.
The Lord Bedford turns to face the girl. He smiles
triumphantly. He is so happy to have explained this to her, an
ignorant peasant girl.
After all, my dear, that is what you said yourself just a
moment ago, remember?
She favours The Lord Bedford with a long look. Then
she grins.
Is it, my Lord? Do old people pray on their deathbeds
for guidance for their future actions?
The Lord Bedford is furious with her. Doesnt she
know that grinning is forbidden at court? He shakes so much
in his fury that some chocolate splashes out onto his hand. He
stares at the congealing liquid for a short while, mesmerised,
then swiftly licks it up.
What do they do then? I daresay you know the
answer. He is very testy with her now, all courtly bonhomie
quite gone.
It is her turn to express her triumph.
Why, my Lord, they speak to God.
And that, The Lord Bedford realises too late, is the
trap. Nonetheless, he responds without thinking:
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They might be foolish to worship images, my dear,

but they are not mad for doing so.
And so there is the crux, lying nakedly clear between
them.
Madness.
She pauses as would be expected in the
circumstances to allow for the seriousness of the situation.
The Lord Bedford takes this opportunity to drain his cup. He
licks his lips to catch the very last traces of the chocolate and
cake-sugar. She watches him closely, as though she had
nothing better to do at that moment. She even waits until he
has placed the empty cup on the salver, beside the chocolate
pot and the cake box.
Have you never spoken to God, my Lord?
The Lord Bedford should be used to the girls cunning
by now, her ability to attack from an unexpected quarter. She
smiles to see him caught so off-guard.
The Lord Bedford says, not forgiving himself for the
sniffy tone that betrays him:
I pray to God, if that is what you mean.
Which, of course, she does not. Putting down her now
thoroughly drained cup beside that of The Lord Bedford, she
says happily:
Ah no, my Lord, I mean have you ever considered
even passing the time of day with Him?
It is getting worse for The Lord Bedford. He finds in
himself a tendency to stammer, so exposed is he.
Passing the time of day? The very prospect unnerves
him.
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She simply nods. This mute response offers The Lord

Bedford a moment of relief, in which something of his more
usual acerbic manner can reappear:
These are mad words you utter, my dear. You are
merely confirming the suspicions of my council.
She is unfazed, turning to face him directly, arms
hanging by her sides:
Most of your counsellors will burn in Hell, my Lord.
Bishop Cauchon has already admitted as much.
This is something The Lord Bedford cannot deny.
There are times, even, when a hint of sulphur pervades his
quarters, not all of it coming from his armoury. So he relents
to the extent that he can afford:
They say there is no fault in speaking to God, for that
is what prayer is. The danger, Im told, arises when that
person claims that God replies. God, after all, is evidenced in
His Works. And in His Holy Church, of course.
She nods in agreement, much as he has seen peasants
do at markets and in their cups, a sage nodding of deep
seriousness even if the subject is the price of pigs.
Then you have never greeted your God when He is in
your presence. Were you afraid He might answer you?
This time The Lord Bedford knows he cannot speak
without his stutter becoming evident. His throat is not under
his control. So she continues, to fill up the silence:
I mean, my Lord, if a gentlemen were to enter your
chamber here, you would wish him the time of day, would
you not? And you would expect that gentlemen to return your
salutations with an equally kind salutation, yes? Why then
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can you not treat your God as such a gentleman. Is God not to
be considered a gentleman? You need only salute Him with a
simple greeting. You could say, for instance as I have heard
gentlemen, both French and English, say Good morrow,
Sir, I hope I find you well. Or you could say, You have my
best wishes, Sir. She smiles broadly, her eyes bright with
the fun of it. What could be easier?
Indeed, but for the utter madness of it. The Lord
Bedford imagines for an instant greeting God with such a
salutation. People would think him insane. He is speaking,
stammering:
That is m-madness!
She smiles again, a false warmth. The Lord Bedford
finally understands how much this young common woman
loathes and hates him.
How do you know if you have never tried to do it?
You need only extend your greeting to God, much as you
would to any gentleman.
The Lord Bedford is by now shaking all over. He
knows very well that he is shaking with fear, though he still
hopes that it will be mistaken for anger. But there is no hope
for that, for she murmurs, as though to soothe him at this
crucial juncture:
The fear of the Lord is the beginning of Wisdom.
And it does help, for he finds a long gentle sigh issuing
from his mouth. He nods.
Just utter the words, my Lord, as though you intend
them for a gentleman. Only know that this gentleman is your
God.
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What can he do? Well, he can send this peasant girl

away, back to prison. He himself can simply walk out of her
presence; go to visit his wife, for instance. He can do almost
anything if he really wants to except what he does do,
which is extend a greeting to his God.
He bows suddenly at one with himself, calm and
dignified and says in his most emollient tone:
Good day, my Lord. I hope I find you well.
He sweeps his right arm as any gentleman would do in
greeting another gentleperson.
It is an immensely satisfying thing to do.
She watches him closely, and claps her hands in
delight when she sees him suddenly stunned. She is like a
simple child watching the antics of an animal or a bird,
amused, enraptured, transported by the experience.
The Lord Bedford has put the tips of the fingers of both
hands to his lips, as though trying to stop something escaping
from him. This seems not to work, for he now presses the
palms of his hands to his face, tension in his cheeks as he
clamps his gums together. Even The Lord Bedfords eyes are
as though straining to pop out of his head. If he speaks, what
might he say?
And yet he can think a part of him forever cold, even
in such a circumstance as this:
Why not the rose? Oh, why not the good English rose?

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Im awake!
The thought is so clear that she strains to listen, as
though someone is speaking to her. Yes, she is awake.
Suddenly awake, a startling clarity in her awareness. For a
while she is filled with this luminous light, then a voice
speaks, definitely coming from outside her:
Do not move. The umbilicals must be detached.
She knows what this signifies, so she waits
expectantly. The trying moment is not the separation of the
pipes themselves, but the cessation of the flow of fluids into
and out of her body.
And so it is: a sadness and regret, then the emptiness,
then the chill of aloneness.
You should rest for now, Carabella. You are still in
trauma.
The light has faded so that only the dull external light
is apparent through her eyelids now. So she opens her eyes.
The blue light is familiar. She has difficulty opening her
mouth at first. There is pain everywhere, even in her tongue
when she tries to move it. But she does manage to speak, a
croaking tone, very low and weak:
There is no time for rest.
She is surprised to hear herself say this. Why cant she
rest? The prospect of moving puts her into a swoon, the
internal light strengthening again.
Then another voice, also outside her:
You are awake, Sophie?
She sees only a shadowed form looming above her,
dangling hair grazing her shoulder and breast. She raises a
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hand towards him, stiffness rather than outright pain

accompanying this action.
I must go, I must go.
She wants to rise towards him, a huge urgency
suddenly in her, galvanising her despite the many aches and
pains. And he bends towards her, his arms coming to support
her and bear her up from the couch.
The machine it is the machine that first spoke today
now says:
It is advisable that you rest for now. Otherwise you
will undo the healing that has been achieved.
He says, his features clearer now that he is closer:
The machine is right, Sophie. You are very weak.
She clings to him in response, pressing her body in
close to his. The warmth he radiates is truly wonderful, like a
tonic.
No. I must go on. Today is the day.
So he lifts her clear of the couch. The door slides open.
The corridor is lit blue. He asks loudly:
Sustenance?
A door slides open further down the corridor. He
hurries in that direction, holding her tightly in to him, as
though he too drew some strength from his contact with her.
It is a large room, a row of couches facing the end wall. He
lays her on the couch closest to the sustenance hatch. The
machine says as he approaches:
Choose from the menu. An appropriate liquid
refreshment will accompany your choice. A brightly
coloured pad lights up and flashes: Pressing this will provide
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an enhanced meal, which is good for activity. Fruit. A

second pad lights up and flashes: Pressing this will provide a
consolidated meal, which is good for leisure. Alcohol. And a
third pad lights up and flashes: Pressing this will provide a
comprehensive meal, which is good for recovery. Milk.
He is not sure what to do at first. He wants to call and
ask her advice, but then the machine says, another voice,
deeper and so more authoritative:
Enhanced meals are indicated. Extra milk will be
provided for Carabella. You make sure she drinks it.
He is unnerved by this direct admonishment. He shouts
at the panel in front of him:
I always do what is best for Sophie! I dont need a
machine to tell me that!
The panel slides up with a low hum. Two trays and
three beakers stand awaiting collection. He decides to take
the milk and the meal over to her first. She is seated up on the
edge of the couch, eyes wide open as though frightened. He
sees that her arms are goosefleshed and her nipples distended
and dark. He is alarmed.
What is it, Sophie?
She raises a hand to him and says:
I saw something. She touches her brow. I cant
remember what. No, I cant remember now.
She begins to cry, head down, miserable sobs shaking
her thin body.
It is the first time he has seen her fail, and it frightens
him for a instant. Then it is as though he is set for a
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moment remote from the world he is not frightened. He

says, stroking her head:
You will find it again, Sophie. I have no doubt about
that.
She looks at him, eyes red, face awash with tears. Her
mouth curls as though for a sarcastic response, then she
slumps and nods.
The truth is inside her, she knows. It is there already.
He sees that she is relieved by what he has said, even
though he doesnt know what he meant. But now he says,
laying his hand gently on her thin shoulder.
Eat now, Sophie. You have a long day ahead of you.
She acknowledges this, then swings herself back onto
the couch and swivels the little table around in front of her.
You are to drink the milk first, Sophie. He indicates
the beaker. Then you should eat.
She obediently drains the beaker and gives it to him,
saying while she draws the food tray towards her:
And you must eat too, natal.
He flushes with the deep pleasure her concern gives
him. He collects the rest of the food and drink and takes the
couch immediately beside her. They eat in silence, the food
as ever both fortifying and tasty.
When they have eaten, he says:
I had a dream last night, Sophie. I rarely dream, but
last night the dream was very vivid. Can I tell you about it?
She stares at him, eyes narrowing for a moment. She
might speak, but then she nods abruptly.
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There was a little chamber. Not like the domiciles, but

very ancient, how people once lived. The door was open and
I could see into the room, even though there seemed to be no
light source. A woman sat on a stool in the corner at the back
of the room. She seemed familiar, though I didnt recognise
her. I know my mother had a sister, and that my father had a
sister too. I never met either. In fact, I only met my father
once, when I was very young. Its one of my oldest
memories. Mother hid us Stella and me in the desert and
so we met very few people.
But the woman in the room was familiar and though
she never looked at me, she seemed to know me too. She sat
very still on the stool, her hands pressed together and resting
in her lap. She wore a blue gown that covered her body
completely even her feet were hidden. I thought it was
important how her hands were pressed together palm to
palm flat together.
I discovered I was standing in a short corridor, and as
I looked up it it too was lit even though I could see no light
source what seemed to be an infant child came along
towards me on a small wheeled couch. It was much like the
machine trolley, but smaller, and there seemed to be no
controls. It moved in complete silence. I got a shock when the
infant came closer. I saw that it was a little girl, and that she
had no arms or legs.
I was standing to one side of the door to the room, so
the little girl passed very close by me as the couch swung
around to enter the room. The little girl smiled at me, Sophie.
Such a smile you never saw, my dear. It was dazzling in its
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brightness, a very brave smile, a comforting smile. I knew

that she smiled that smile just for me, for who I was and for
what I was doing there outside that room. I immediately
wanted to help her perhaps to push the little trolley into the
room but I knew instantly that the little girl was very
independent and would not welcome my interference.
So she swept past me and went into the room. I dont
know how the trolley was propelled. There was no motor that
I could hear, and she had no way of driving the wheels,
having no arms or legs. Even so, the trolley shot straight
across the room towards the woman seated in the corner.
When she got there, the little girl just beamed up at the
woman. At once I knew that the girl was the daughter of the
woman. The poor child was overjoyed to see her mother.
Even though the girl had her back to me, I could sense the
radiance of her joy.
The woman sat impassive, hands joined together, just
looking at her daughter. Then she reached her right hand and
stroked the little childs head. The girls pleasure knew no
bounds. The room was lit bright by her joy. The mood of the
woman the mother moved me very much, Sophie. The
words that come to me to describe it are sadness, forbearance,
and most of all compassion. It was as though the mother was
aware that the little crippled girl was her daughter and loved
her because of that. But at the same time she knew that the
little girl was a separate being with her own destiny. Her
compassion arose from that knowledge, and also from the
knowledge that her daughters destiny would be a hard one.
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He slumps when he finishes speaking, drained by the

effort.
The door opens behind them with its usual whoosh.
Ah, I thought I would find you here.
Its the Caretaker, speaks loudly with a false cheer, as
though he was glad to be up and about in the morning.
That time of day, of course. Everyone at their
breakfast as they used to call it. He has come around so
that he can approach her from the side. His eyes are glazed
and bright, his smooth scalp shiny. They had words for
everything, you know. So many things. So many different
things. I study them. You know, during the long days when
nothing happens. I get the machine to search out all sorts of
bits and pieces. I have been researching shoes. Do you know
how many different kinds of shoes there were a thousand
years ago? Hundreds, my dear. No, literally thousands, I
would say. The lists go on and on.
He swings about towards the sustenance hatch and taps
a pad with a brisk stab of his index finger. Then he turns back
to her:
But, you know my dear, what really fascinates me
about them are their belts. You know what a belt is? Its strap
of sorts that goes around the middle, here he indicates with
two hands, drawing an imaginary belt towards the front
and then they fasten the ends together in one way or another.
They used them to hold up their clothing. Oh yes! They has
all sorts of funny clothing. You know, bits and pieces of
things, a whole variety of materials. A lot of them stuff no
one alive today has ever heard of.
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The sustenance hatch flies up. The old man pivots and
seizes up the tray and beaker with a blind habitual motion. He
lays the tray on the edge of her table, coming to stand close to
her, and begins eating at once, spooning the food into his
mouth with a practiced rapidity. Even so, he can resume
speaking:
You know, my dear, but I am sure you would find
these people interesting. I mean, if you could take the time to
study them. I say that because of your fondness for hair. He
falters, obviously repulsed by the growing mop on her head.
They were so proud of their hair, do you know that? They
spent fortunes just maintaining it. I mean, it was such an
extravagant waste in the end. But, as I was saying, they used
these belts to hold all these pieces of clothing together.
Though I must tell you that they often strapped a belt about
their bodies even when it wasnt strictly required. And so
tight!
Finished eating, he takes his tray and beaker and tosses
them into the serving hatch. He returns, snatches up her tray
and beaker too she has just about finished drinking off her
fruit juice and throws them towards the hatch. Obviously a
lot of experience here, for the utensils fly straight into the
hatch, landing with a clatter among his own.
There now, the old man says with deep satisfaction,
wiping his fingers across his gown. He turns to her, gazing at
her reclining body as if looking for inspiration, then lights up.
Ah yes. Now, my dear, we will have to get a gown for
you. Must have you decent for the Superintendent. He sets
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off down towards the door. Come along now, no time to

waste.
And indeed she does hurry, as best she is able, sliding
down off the couch until her feet touch the floor. Very shaky
at first, she fights against the pain and discomfort of moving
until she is able to walk rapidly with short paces in his wake.
In the corridor, he suddenly stops his forward rush
his gown wrapping and unwrapping itself around his legs
and waits for her to catch up. They are almost the same
height, yet he bends towards her, as though he was taller,
when he speaks:
And do you know the remarkable thing about all this,
my dear?
She is getting into her stride by now, though pain and
weakness remain in the offing, and she throws a wary glance
at him in response to this question. But the question is merely
a rhetorical device the old man uses usually with the clones
to maintain the fiction that he is being listened to.
Well, it is this. That kind of muddled clothing was
around for over a thousand years, and yet nobody ever asked
why! Now, can you believe that, my dear? We know that the
cultures that preceded them dressed much as we do. Why,
even the religious sort continued to dress sensibly right down
to minus one thousand. Sooh, in here, my dear.
He has stopped in front of a door along the corridor.
He barks Open six, Sam. and the door opens. He takes her
elbow and guides her in.
Now. We must get the correct gown for you, my dear,
though which one that is Im afraid I dont know yet.
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There is a set of shelving against one wall, upon which

are piles of garments of different colours. The old man begins
a slow review of them:
Well, one thing is for sure, my dear. It will not be a
blue robe. They are reserved for our Candidates. Nor can we
dress you in red, for those are the reserve of the Custodians
when they visit, that is. But yes I see you have
participated in reality. So, what do you say to a yellow robe?
He takes a robe from a short stack and shakes it out. A
green stripe runs down either side. She recoils at the sight. He
catches this at once, his eyes narrowing.
So you do have a preference. Show me. Come over
here and choose your gown, then.
It is as though she has just awakened. She steps back
towards the door which has remained open at her back her
hands coming up as though to ward him off.
I must go on. Today.
He steps towards her, raising his voice in exasperation:
But you need to be properly dressed for your visit.
Dont you understand that, even that?
She shakes her head at his anger, seemingly confused
by his changed temper.
I can go with the natal.
The old man cuts the air with his right hand, something
like jealousy heating him.
No! That one cannot enter the City. That is completely
forbidden. Dont you know that the boys would fry him if he
tried. Suddenly, his whole manner changes. Look, my dear,
I know how you feel. Many are overwhelmed by the honour
319

of entering the City for the first time. I have seen greater than
you in tears in this very room when they finally don their
gown. He even reaches and touches her shoulder. Now, let
us select the right gown for you. He steps away from the
shelves. See? You can come and look for yourself.
And she does step forward, taking an interest in the
array of colours. But then she stops and says:
I am afraid now.
He is startled by her admission.
No, dont say that. He steps towards her again, now
gentle, a warmth radiating from him. Look, when I saw you
last night for the first time. You were near to death. And yet
you were so determined. There is no one in the world like that
anymore. He shakes his head in unfeigned admiration. I
dont know who you are or what you are doing here, my dear,
but I believe that what you do is important for us all. Now he
finally stands before her the old man stooping slightly
though they are of the same height and he spreads his hands
before her.
Tell me what I can do, and I will do it.
She turns towards the open door, the corridor outside
lit with the weak blue light. She says:
I cant remember. I dont know what to do now.
He nods repeatedly as she speaks, concentrating
intently on her every word. Then he says slowly:
For now, my dear, you must dress. After that,
everything will go by itself. I assure you of that.
She turns back to him, her hand reaching towards him.
For a moment she is animated, a flush running up her body
320

from her feet to her face. And he flushes in turn, as though

they shared a language in this way. Then he says, shouting
out in his relief.
I know! I will go and get your old gown. The one you
wore when you arrived here. He gestures to stop any
reaction she might show. No. Now you stand right here until
I return.
At the door he turns again, wagging his finger in
admonishment, very seriously:
Now, dont you move, not for anything.
Then she is alone. She cannot think. Its not reluctance,
as she first fears. No, she lacks the power, for some reason.
Its like not having a light in the dark, wanting a light to
penetrate the gloom, but not having that light. She is terrified
of this fact, fearing most of all that she could make a mistake
now. Any action she takes now could lead to disaster a
great disaster not just for herself but for everyone.
She is shaking, chills running up the back of her legs
and into her spine.
Only say the word.
She hear this, but doesnt know what it means. There is
no word that she knows. Besides, she knows that it is not up
to her to decide. She can only to judge what is the case as
best she can.
She finds she is crying and thinks in deep misery: I
dont know. I dont know.
And this is how the old man finds her on his return.
Head bent abjectly, snivelling as she tries to breathe through
the tears, shaking all over.
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His first response is the fear that something has been

lost even though he hasnt a clue what might have been
lost. Then he is moved by a common pity that someone
should be so vulnerable as this, exposed to such misery.
All he can do is hold up the gown and say with forced
cheer:
Now, you see, I did get your old gown for you. And
look, it has been cleaned too.
And she in turn is moved by his concern for her. She
says, speaking with something of her more usual candour:
No, I dont know what to do. Im not sure anymore.
He hands her the gown in any case, all the time
regarding her closely. Then he nods and says:
Well, look, my dear, might you not consider that
others may be there to help you?
She is startled by some aspect of this suggestion, as
though an impurity might be introduced in this way. But
before she can reply, he raises his hand to stop her.
Look at it this way, my dear. Didnt the natal bring
you here? If I remember rightly, you were hardly able to
move when I first saw you. He bends towards in that way of
his. Now, isnt that true? Didnt the natal help you find your
way here.
And this idea startles her, too. Yet she does stop to
consider it.
He takes advantage of her hesitation:
So, in the same way, you might consider that I am
here now to help you, yes? And later, once the Carriage has
taken you to the City, the Superintendent will be there to help
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you. He smiles a beaming smile to encourage her. Perhaps

that is how it works, my dear. You have your task and Im
sure it is a very important task and we are here to help you
achieve it.
She doesnt want to grant this argument at all. She
says, suddenly harsh:
How could you know anything like that, old man?
Im not saying I know anything at all, my dear. What I
am saying is that if you look at the facts, then that conclusion
can be drawn. He pauses. After all, its better than simply
crying because you are lost, isnt it? I mean, its something to
go on for now. Maybe once you get to the City, you will find
your own way again.
She finds she must concede this argument now. Even
so, she does so reluctantly, unable to trust herself even here.
She nods and the old man says immediately:
So, why dont you get dressed now and we can get on
our way.
His enthusiasm daunts her. She hesitates. He nods to
encourage her. She pulls the gown over her head and down
her body.
There! he says loudly. That didnt hurt, did it?
The gown does reassure her, perhaps the continuity,
but perhaps also some other element of it: the colours, for
instance. She runs her hand down the front of the garment.
The old man is beaming. Oh, Im glad it consoles you,
my dear. He takes her free hand and guides her towards the
door. We are such creatures of habit, you know. See it in the
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boys, even. So long as you can get into a routine, then

anything can be done.
In the hall, he calls out, Close six, Sam. To her he
says conversationally, Now lets go down this way, my dear.
The door we want is just down to the left.
He still holds her hand she has even returned his
clasp, though only slightly walking forward of her to
encourage her. But the boys were terribly thrown out by that
incident yesterday. Cranky this morning. But, you know, the
thing to do on such an occasion is getting them back into
routine as quickly as possible. He flashes her a smile. Got
them dressed and out on patrol first thing this morning.
Didnt give them a chance to brood. Oh, itll work, youll see.
Especially if the machine sends one of its fliers over and
gives them something to shoot at.
He stops walking. So here we are, my dear. Open
twelve, Sam. Just in through here and well have you on your
way to the City in no time at all.
Through the door and there is another corridor, this one
bending away to the left. The light is a pale yellow, which
relieves her, and the flooring has an elastic quality that eases
some habitual tension in her.
He is saying, still holding her hand, still walking just
forward of her:
We try to maintain routines here, you see. The truth is,
my dear woman, is that we dont have much else to do
anymore. He pauses and stares down at the floor. Perhaps I
should leave this subject. They say I think too much. He
shrugs, glancing back to smile at her with an irony she cannot
324

possibly comprehend. What else is there to do, I always say.

You see that I cant enter reality bending his head forward
so she can note the absence of a socket and I dont have
the patience for the actuals, as they like to call them. No, I
roam through the archives, back into the past. Curiosity,
mainly, I suppose. But I do it. Ah, here we are.
She has been listening to him, so absorbed that she did
not see that they approached a wide double-door entrance.
There are symbols inscribed across the doors, but of course
she cannot understand them.
Now, my dear, he says with the utmost gentleness.
We go through here to the Carriage. Open fifteen, Sam. It
should already be here waiting for you.
The area is surprisingly large, low-lit as ever by blue
light. The walls are coloured red, which appears now as a dull
muddy brown, unpleasantly oppressive. The old man makes a
clicking sound to signal his disgust.
Lights! he shouts, and then adds in a lower tone,
Stupid machines.
The lighting is now a yellow white, the walls are
bright red. There is a raised platform about halfway across
the chamber and on this sits a long sleek vehicle of some
kind.
He says, still holding her hand her returning grasp is
stronger now and walking ahead, The City was much
bigger than it is now. He shrugs. Only part of one of the
Spires is used now. He gestures with this free hand, But that
explains the large carriages. Carried a lot of people once upon
a time, you know. Then it is as if he is talking to himself:
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Long time ago now. People complained about overcrowding

then. Would you believe that? Fought with the machine over
material allocations and priorities.
The doors of the carriage all four of them slide
open as they approach and a soft feminine voice says:
Please board the train at once. Departure is
imminent.
The old man at once increases his pace, pulling her in
his wake.
They run just to time. No exceptions. So we must
hurry.
The interior of the carriage is brightly lit. The seating is
covered with a vividly patterned material, seats set two by
two on either side of a central aisle.
He releases her hand once they are in the carriage. He
smiles a big smile for her, his face creasing abruptly into
deep folds.
Now, my dear, you may sit where you please. The
journey wont take long, I assure you.
He watches her closely. It is as though she wakens
from a daze.
There is a low musical tone. The soft female voice
says: Please take your seats. Departure is imminent.
The old man fusses, touching her first on one shoulder
then on the other. You must really sit down somewhere, my
dear. Anywhere will do. Look, why dont you sit here?
She turns towards where he points to the nearest seat
behind her. He gives her the gentlest of shoves and she sits
down. He turns away immediately, saying:
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Now just you sit quietly there, my dear. The journey

will take no time at all.
He moves away towards the nearest door. She springs
up and cries:
No! Dont go. Dont leave me alone here.
He hunches his shoulders as he turns back to her. He
seems grief-stricken. He bends towards her, so that he must
look up to catch her eyes.
Oh but you must go on, my dear woman. That is your
task.
She has clasped her hands together, her face red with
anguish.
But I dont want to go alone. Im afraid.
He is genuinely upset now, caught in a dilemma:
But I cannot leave the Outpost under any conditions,
my dear. The boys would be unsupervised. That cannot be
allowed under any circumstance.
She begins to wail, tears gushing from her eyes. He is
alarmed. He says hurriedly:
Very well, then. I will come with you.
There is a low musical tone. The soft female voice
says: Please take your seats. Departure is imminent.
He shoos her into the inside seat, waits until she has
seated herself, then sits beside her. He sits upright, stiff and
anxious.
I will really get into a lot of trouble over this. I have
never broken a rule before. Never.
The doors close with a soft whoosh. At once the
carriage jerks forward and they are under way. It accelerates
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strongly for a while, then settles down to a smooth almost

silent pace.
Despite his acute anxiety, the old man cant resist
looking about him.
You know, I have never been on one of these before.
He looks over to her, face suddenly lighting into his big
smile. I havent even been in the City before either. Would
you believe that?
Is she listening to him? Is she aware of anything at all?
No, she is not. She knows where she is and what is
happening, but it is as though she no longer has use of her
senses. It is as though she is blind and therefore cannot see
anything, while she can see everything with perfect clarity.
Again, as though deaf and yet hearing every little sound with
perfect clarity. Again, with no limbs to touch, yet in contact
with every surface around her.
He is saying: Just imagine, these trains thats what
they called them long ago once had windows all along
either side. He points to illustrate. They could look out at
everything they passed by. But of course in these tunnels they
would see nothing, but still they wanted these windows. Isnt
that strange? Apparently, every one without exception would
wait until the train entered a station, when they would avidly
study every detail. Oh, I know people nowadays find that
very strange. But I have seen the evidence myself. You can
see them in the archives craning forward to look. Every time
the train came into a station.

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There is a low musical tone. The soft female voice

says: Approaching the Root Station of Spire Three. Please
be ready to leave the carriage at once.
The carriage begins to slow steeply. Then there is light.
The carriage come to a stop. The doors whoosh open.
There is a low musical tone. The soft female voice
says: Please leave the carriage at once.
The old man jumps up, anxious again. He goes forward
to the nearest door and then runs back.
Please hurry. I must get back to the Outpost at once.
There will be a lot of trouble if anything happens.
She is reluctant to move, a deep reluctance that she
cannot bring herself to overcome. She knows she will
eventually stand up and walk out of the carriage, but she does
not know how this will come about.
The old man is growing wild in his anxiety. He runs
down the carriage to the door again. He is about to run back,
when an impulse drives him out of the carriage into the
station. A tall man stands in the middle of what is a very
large area indeed, high ceiling, distant wall coloured a deep
gold. The old man runs towards him. The tall man is stunned
to see him.
Jimwellan? What are you doing here? You know it is
strictly
The old man has clasped his hands as if in
beseechment. His anxiety has changed to something more
like deep terror. Yet the expression in his eyes remains
unchanged, as though he is merely acting a part, perhaps
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rehearsing something he has witnessed in the archives. But he

says, fully in character with the appearance of his condition:
She would not come, Superintendent, unless I
accompany her. He sweeps his right hand back towards the
carriage. And now she wont leave her seat.
The Superintendent bends forward slightly in his
dignity, a frown coming to crease his heavy features so that
his natal-eyebrows almost hide his eyes.
So much difficulty in this, you know, Jimwellan.
He would say more except that he has checked himself.
Instead, he shifts his gown coloured a rich blue on his
shoulders, straightens up and says slowly:
Then we had better talk to this woman.
The old man is intensely relieved. He bobs his head in
acknowledgement, then steps aside to allow the
Superintendent lead the way. The Superintendent is very tall,
with grey hair trailing out over his gown, but he carries
himself with a noticeable stoop perhaps the burden of his
duties to blame. He steps forward with his long pace and the
old man hurries to keep up with him, his shorter pace
becoming a comfortable toddle very quickly.
You know, Jimwellan, the Superintendent begins in
his strong voice, I believe this is the first time I have had
reason to reprimand you. All these years of exemplary
service. He stops walking and looks down at the old man,
who stares back with his glazed eyes. You say you were
conscious that you were making a very serious breach of the
rules?
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The old man nods. Oh yes, Superintendent. I was very

aware of that. But, you see, I had to assess the gravity of the
situation.
The Superintendent nods slowly, thick lips tightly
pursed. And you felt obliged to humour the woman, is that
it?
The old man steps back. Is humouring the correct
term, Superintendent? She would still be crying her eyes out
at the Depot otherwise. What then?
The Superintendent nods abruptly. Yes, yes, of course.
Not humouring. Not indulging either. He takes a very deep
breath, eyes narrowed under his heavy brows. Yes. Yes, I
understand now. He reaches and touches the old mans
shoulder. Yes, no doubt you made the right decision in the
circumstances.
The Superintendent resumes walking towards the
Carriage. The old man is up at his side in a matter of paces.
Yes, what you did was justified, Jimwellan. There will
be no need to take this further. But what I suggest now is this,
that you go back to your station in the Depot at once. Yes?
The old man replies with a very obvious alacrity: Oh
yes. That would please me very much, Superintendent.
Good. Then thats decided. Let us then attend to this
woman now.
They have reached the Carriage. They pause, both
craning forward to look into the bright interior. The old man
goes first, knowing something of what to expect, and the
Superintendent follows, ducking as he enters the Carriage.
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She is slumped in the seat, sagging over against the

wall. She is snoring loudly.
The Superintendent bends lower to study her, saying,
Well, I never. The old man is flustered, standing to one side
while the tall natal fills the aisle between the seats, a feeling
akin to disappointment rising in him.
She was extremely tired, Superintendent, after her
long journey here. The Superintendent turns and gives him a
hard look. The old man shakes his head. The rest will
freshen her for the task ahead.
The Superintendent looks very sceptical. He backs
away from the woman, still deeply bent, until he finds
himself in the empty area before the door, when he straighten
as best he can. Well, you had better waken her, Jimwellan,
so she can continue on her way.
The old man steps forward, hand rising until it hovers
over her nearest shoulder. He says, Please wake up. The
woman continues to snore, a thin trail of mucus rattling in
one of her nostrils as it forms itself into a drip. The old man is
reluctant to disturb her, knowing full well that she will start
bawling again when she awakens.
The Superintendent loses patience and shouts, very
loudly: Will you waken her up!
The woman starts awake, sees the old man bending
over her, a fearful expression on his face. She screams. The
old man raises his hands as a signal to quieten her. She
responds immediately. The old man backs off until he finds a
seat on the far side of the aisle. He looks up at the
Superintendent then looks away, saying:
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No one has ever shouted at me before. Never. Tears

well up in his eyes. I have always done my duty as best as I
could. I have served faithfully.
The Superintendent is stricken. It was a momentary
lapse, Jimwellan. He points at the scraggy woman cowering
in her seat. It was this creature. They say she will save us all
and what do I find? I mean, have we really come to this?
The old man nods his head, eased by his tears and the
Superintendents contrition. Then he looks across to the
woman and says: Youre going to have to start behaving
yourself here. That is, if you want them to take you
seriously.
She stands up, looking small and thin in her scruffy
gown. She says, voice thin and reedy, I must go on.
The Superintendent comes towards her, bending his
body again: But Jimwellan says you wont leave the
Carriage. How can you go on if you dont leave here and go
into the City?
The old man says, suddenly wanting to protect her
from the Superintendents large presence: But she is very
very tired, Superintendent. We must make allowances here in
these circumstances.
You are a natal. This is spoken very directly to the
Superintendent. He nods, though he is taken aback by such
forthrightness from an artificial, especially one so old. Good.
Then we must hurry. She pauses, looking for a moment
down at the row of seats along the Carriage. Though it may
be too late. Now she looks up again, that stricken look back
on her face. But she speaks firmly nonetheless: Something
333

has changed. She splays her hands, a dramatic gesture to the

Superintendent: I have lost the something. I dont know
what to do anymore.
The Superintendent is remarkably emollient at this
point. He says: You will know what to do when you are in
his presence. When you see how he is, I mean.
She shakes her head, very dubious about this. The
Superintendent interjects very quickly: That is my
experience. A skill learned is never forgotten. He pauses,
then says in a silky tone, remarkably sensuous for such a
large blunt natal: And you have practiced your calling many
times, I hear.
She nods upon hearing this. She purses her mouth, then
nods again, signalling to both the Superintendent and the
Caretaker that a decision has been made. She says:
Very well. I will trust to what you say, natal.
The Superintendent quickly makes a passage for her as
she leaves the Carriage, then follows her closely out into the
gigantic concourse. He walks very close to her, just behind,
his swinging hand coming very close to her back at times. He
is saying, as the true size of the structure becomes apparent:
No doubt you found Jimwellan very quaint? He
spends all his time lost in the past. Hes even infected me
with it, as you can hear. Well, perhaps its the long days we
spend here maintaining order, you know, keeping things
going.
The Superintendent doesnt know whether she is
listening or not, seeing only the back of her head most of the
time. But he must speak to her to fill up the terrible chasm he
334

perceives to lie between them. The truth is, he is very afraid

of her, disliking her shabby artificial quality, the typical selfimportance, the brutal insensitivity to others. Even so, he is
saying:
Sometimes, you know, its hard to know what to do.
Its fine for Jimwellan, he can play with his boys when the
urge takes him, but what about us in the Citadel itself? You
would be shocked to know just how few of us there are here
now. Do you know that only two natals were born last year
on the Rim? The number we need to replace our existing
numbers is more like two hundred.
She turns her head slightly and asks: What has that to
do with me?
The Superintendent is taken aback. He bends forward,
feeling extremely haughty, exposed because he has spoken
intimately with an artificial, even if she is so important.
I believe you have the power to reverse this trend.
Isnt that right?
She stops walking. The concourse is vast now, high
roof curving up into a broad hemisphere. She thinks how this
would once have been used by many people. At once she can
see the teeming masses streaming this way and that, to and
from the trains and the risers.
She hears music.
She spins around and says to the Superintendent: I can
hear music! How is that possible?
The Superintendent raises hands: Oh, the music is still
here.
335

And so it is, a soft flowing melody playing at low

volume in a high register.
The Superintendent is continuing: I believe the mood
of the music would vary with the time of day. Fast paced
music for the busy periods and lulling like this when things
where quiet. He pauses and closes his eyes. After a moment
he says: It is sweet, isnt it? It plays sometimes when a group
of Candidates come, though only very rarely. He looks
closely at her: Its remarkable that it plays just for you.
She is not impressed by this. She turns and continues
across the wide floor. The Superintendent hurries to follow,
saying,
Perhaps then it is because of the commotion in the
Carriage. Jimwellan is very excitable, dont you think?
Again, he cannot tell whether she is listening. Thats why he
was chosen as Caretaker. The clones like excitement. The
Superintendent is walking very close to her again, and this
time his hand is repeatedly touching the small of her back.
You know, it has always struck me as strange that all the
clones are male. Why do you think that is so?
She stops walking again. He collides with her. She
glares up at him. He asks, Do you have a minute? and lifts
his gown to show her. She looks puzzled more than anything
else. She says:
You will kill me. Its a flat statement that she
obviously means it is a warning she can remember from
somewhere.
The Superintendent steps closer, his gown still hoisted.
Surely not, my dear. I will be careful, if you like.
336

She simply turns away and resumes walking. The

Superintendent runs after her, letting his gown drop. Oh
please. You are the first woman Ive met in eight years. No
one comes here anymore. I mean, just once. That wont take
long.
They are approaching the perimeter of the great hall
now. A row of arches come into view.
The Superintendent is still pleading with her, his heavy
voice growing quickly hoarse, not used to intensive use. It
will help you too, you know. You must be apprehensive by
now. Such a great task ahead of you and no assurance of
success. Would it not be a consolation to have
Through an arch and there is a sizeable round platform
rimmed with a low rail made of a transparent material. A low
voice, very musical, says:
Please board directly.
She is about to obey, when she notices that the
platform appears to hang in empty space. She whimpers with
sudden fear. The Superintendent is brusque, out of humour by
now:
Oh, its only the riser. Just step on it and you will be
taken up to the Seclusion. When she continues to hesitate, he
reaches and pushes her forward on to the platform. Look,
just do it. I dont have Jimwellans patience for this.
She has been merely afraid, now an element of dread
enters her. The word Seclusion has triggered it. She knows
something now. She knows enough to experience a terrible
dread.
The voice says: Please stand clear of the platform.
337

The Superintendent is leaning towards her, saying in a

soothing voice: I can come with you, if you like. To keep
you company, I mean.
She knows the dread does not presage death. It is not
death that she is afraid of. In the dread there is a powerful
sense of regret and reluctance.
The Superintendent comes and stands very close to her.
The platform begins to move without even the slightest jerk.
Soon it is rising very rapidly, yet there is little sensation of
movement and absolutely no air pressure upon them.
The Superintendent lifts his gown again to display his
engorged penis. He says: Now, my dear, while we have a
spare moment. What do you think?
She looks up from her thoughts, distracted. The insight
comes that everything is to be changed.
She says to the tall natal: Everything will be changed
by this. She is immensely sad.
The Superintendent nods, then lifts her up into his
arms. He enters her with no warning and drives hard against
her. He sighs loudly with the relief.
She cannot do anything else but cling to him, the
sensation in her sudden and harsh. It is a moment of
abandonment, yet she feels even as she cries out in her
passion that the act is superfluous.
Superfluous?
Has Restoration been achieved already? Is there
another Midwife?

338

The Superintendent cries out at his climax, but there is

a shuddering, diffused quality in his ejaculation, as though he
too was coming to his senses too soon.
She finds she cannot stand when the Superintendent
releases her. Also, she can feel her warm blood trickling
down her inner thighs. She coughs a dry barking cough and
asks:
Has the Restoration begun?
The Superintendent sees the blood when it trickled
down to her calves, her gown still partly hitched up on her
body. He whimpers with real fear. He stares at her, aghast, as
he tells her, Theres no machine up here to help you.
The platforms slows at a steady rate until it stops, again
without the slightest jerk.
The Superintendent reaches and lifts her to her feet.
I cannot go any further. He bends to looks closely
into her eyes: But believe this. I regret not paying attention
to what you told me about your condition. I can only plead
the overwhelming power of my basic drives.
When she makes a first step, she finds that the
congealing blood has glued her to the platform surface. Of
course, she can overcome this, but her feet do tend to stick to
the ground, generating a sharp squelchy sound each time.
Beyond the platform there is only a wide doorway,
some script in lines across it, which she cannot read. But the
Superintendent says behind her he still standing in the
centre of the riser platform:
You just go through, my dear. It will open for you,
only for you.
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The more she walks the less sticky are her feet. At the
door, she hesitates again and looks back.
The platform has gone. She is alone.
The door opens for her.
It is a bright room because a line of tall windows fills
the opposite wall. There is a man sitting huddled on the floor
in the centre of the room. He is naked and she can hear his
teeth chattering from where she stands by the door. The
windows are filled with blue sky. She goes across to the
windows, making a wide detour around the figure on the
floor. It seems that she is standing at the top of one of the
Spires, very high above the ground. The view is unknown to
her, a wide brown terrain that stretches flat away into the
distance. But there is a short line of hills at one point on the
far horizon, a little to the right of where she looks.
Not far away from the Spire she can see that a furrow
has been created in the earth. It is lined with a white
substance. The furrow ends abruptly over to her left, after
which the land is uniformly flat and brown. She is wondering
what this furrow is when something comes shooting into
view from the left, travelling at a truly amazing speed. It is
long and black. It is a train.
She hears nothing. She turns to the figure on the
ground and asks:
Is that one of the tunnels?
The figure starts and looks up at her. It is a man, a
natal, an old natal. His face is a flat white, his straggling hair
clings to his narrow skull. He says, croaking voice hardly
above a whisper:
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Will you please help me.

She has turned back to the window, to watch the
amazing train immensely long now that it has cleared the
tunnel as it streaks away rightwards, out towards land that
changes from brown to grey in the middle distance.
When the train has finally disappeared from sight, she
turns and calls across to the man on the floor:
Do you know what is happening to you?
He gasps as though he has lost his breath, then replies:
I am overborne.
She nods on hearing this.
And what have you done so far?
I have been in submission.
Is that submission accepted?
No.
She looks around the room. There are doors on either
side. She sets off across the floor towards the one on her
right, asking as she does:
Who advised submission?
The Mentor Council.
Do you think your mentors understand your
situation?
No.
Do you?
No.
The door opens onto a large hygiene booth. She enters
it, but no voice admonishes her to undress first. She backs out
again into the main room. She sets off across the room
towards the other door, asking as she does:
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What was the understanding of your situation?

That an Angel of Glory would descend and raise me
to Heaven.
She skirts the man on the floor fairly widely. She notes
that he does not try to look at her.
And this is not a true understanding?
I dont know.
She stops walking and turns back to look at him he is
crouched sideways to her.
Explain.
I believe that the Angel has descended to me, but I am
not being raised to Heaven?
What is happening?
I shiver and sweat at the same time. He pauses,
lowering his head. The Angel tells me that I burn in ice.
And is that not Heaven?
The man moans loudly. Oh no, this cannot be Heaven.
I suffer too much. It will kill me.
But mustnt you die in order to enter Heaven?
The man moans again, a long piteous moan, then
slumps in a heap again on the floor.
She resumes her journey across to the other door.
Opened, it reveals a large subsistence booth. There are all
kinds of surfaces here, some large, some small. Nozzles and
pipes protrude from the wall in one place and there is a deep
container of some sort nearby. She recognises the seating
provided, some low benches and a number of individual seats
with back supports.
342

She withdraws to the main room. She understands her

own calm perfectly. Its like reaching the end of a journey, of
arriving. There is a fatalism in this that gives her a deep
relief.
She says to the man as she approaches him: I will do
the best that is possible.
He lifts his head immediately and gushes in an abject
gratitude: Oh thank you. I have suffered like this for many
days now.
She stands over him, staring hard at his drained face:
You have suffered like this for all your existence. But you
were not aware of that until what you call the Angel
descended.
He is startled to hear this, so much so that he forces
himself into a sitting position on the floor. How do you
know something like that?
The same way you do, natal.
Being addressed as natal brings the man to the
awareness that she herself is not a natal. He says, partly in
accusation and partly in astonishment. Youre not a natal.
You are an artificial.
She simply nods, then says: You must instruct your
Angel, as you call it.
Her casual response to his accusation annoys him.
Who are you to tell a spiritual being what to do? What can
you know of these things? Youre little more than a fancy
clone.
She shrugs, then makes her more familiar moue, saying
offhandedly: And it seems that you are a fool.
343

There is a moment of disengagement here, and this

allows the matter of her physical condition to come to mind
again. She can feel the blood dried to her legs, the dull ache
in the pit of her stomach.
The natal is even more angry now, glaring at her with
hot, weak eyes.
How dare you speak to me like that, artificial! I dont
know who deputed you to be the Mediator here, but I think a
mistake has been made. How can you think that a holy spirit
can be dictated to by a human being, let alone something that
was brewed up in a bottle?
She glances at the seated natal, shrugs, then walks over
to the main door. It opens at her approach. The vestibule
outside is empty. She looks over the edge into the shaft that
serves the platform. The light is dim blue down there, so she
cannot see very far. She asks: Where is the platform?
Silence.
She remembers that there is no machine in the Spire.
The screen at her wrist is dark. She goes back into the
chamber and shouts across to the natal, How do I call the
platform up?
He is huddled over again and does not answer her.
She crosses to the hygiene booth. The controls each
bears an illustration of the action it initiates. She presses the
shower button. A voice says, a tinny voice devoid of
character, Please undress first.
She pulls the gown over her head and throws in on the
ground at her feet. The jets are hot and very powerful. They
do move about, directing the water across her body. The
344

runoff is stained pink for a while, then runs clear. She cleans
her gown by the expedient of walking back and forth across it
until the water runs clear here too. Another button activates
the driers. She takes the wet gown with her when she leaves
and spreads it out on the floor of the main chamber to dry.
That done, she sets off across the room. The natal
looks up as she approaches. He stares mutely at her and she
knows that he cannot bring himself to ask her again for help.
She says as she passes feeling obliged by her role to make
this observation for his benefit:
The Angel as you call it may be a mighty being in
Heaven as you call it but here on earth it is little more
than a mewling infant.
She skirts him widely and continues on to the
subsistence booth. He screams at her back, a fury he cannot
contain:
How dare you demean the Angel of Glory? Who are
you to speak of infants? You prattle like a cocky child.
In the subsistence booth it takes her a moment to work
out how to draw a beaker of water. It is cool and sweet. She
also discovers which button to press to get food: a crunchy
bar that is extremely satisfying to eat.
Back in the main room, she says to him:
Have you been married?
He is glaring at her, leaning towards her while
supporting himself on his arms. Her question takes him by
surprise.
What do you mean, married? That custom died out
centuries ago.
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She has just had a very good idea. She goes over and
collects up her wet gown and takes it into the subsistence
booth, where she lays it out across the back of one of the
seats. Now it will dry more quickly. Returning to the main
room, she replies:
They used to call it the Sacred Marriage. A very
ancient ritual, where two were made one.
He shakes his head, a momentary worry interfering
with his fine rage.
Ive never heard of that.
No? Then you have been poorly prepared for your
ordeal, natal. She shakes her head slowly. There is very
little I can do for you.
The worry now takes him over. But I am overborne.
She bends towards him, then she crouches. But the
discomfort is so great that she must go down on her knees.
He at once transfers his attention to her groin, staring with an
increasing fascination at her pubic bush.
She says: It is as though you are trying to give birth
without the mother being present. It is not possible. She
stops, catching herself on. She lowers her head until she can
catch his eyes. Please pay attention to me. I said I would
help you as best I can in the circumstances.
She waits until he sits up and transfers his attention to
her face.
Now, you will shortly die. The spirit that you insist on
calling the Angel of Glory will withdraw. You will follow it
you wont be able to resist doing that which will result in
your death.
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This news shocks him. His mouth falls slack. He

stammers, but she holds up her hand to stop him.
I will now address the spirit coming to birth stillbirth in you. There are three principles that need to be
accepted. One is that you will no longer be a universal
individual being. Instead, you will discover that your
particular physical being is only a part of the larger Earth
being and returns to it after a time. Two, you will experience
yourself as a separate individual among other separate
individual beings. That is, you will no longer be identical to
all other spiritual beings. Three, your knowledge will no
longer be complete. Instead, you will discover yourself in the
most profound darkness of ignorance. However, the greatest
gift of human incarnation will be available to you. It will be
possible for you to learn. In experiencing this world and the
individual beings that inhabit it, you will able to learn about
this world and its inhabitants. Thus you will in time replace
the darkness of ignorance with the light of real knowledge
and find that you yourself live in the knowledge of the other
beings about you. This is the light they call love.
The natal is crestfallen. I dont understand any of that,
artificial.
I wasnt speaking to you.
His rage is back: Who else is there?
You are the shadow cast by your real self. She bows
her head momentarily. As we all are.
The natal makes a glum expression on his thin white
face, then slumps again into a huddle on the floor. She stares
at his supine figure. It is her turn to feel crestfallen. She
347

clambers to her feet, wondering Is that it? The natal remains

unmoved, seemingly waiting for the moment of death. She
wanders off, at first with no sense of direction, then she sees
she is heading for the main door. It opens for her.
There is no platform.
She asks, Where is the riser?
No answer.
She is totally at a loss now. She returns to the chamber.
The natal is lying on his back, his right arm partially raised,
waving feebly. She goes across to him.
This is Hell, he says in a low hoarse voice. Sweat is
streaming from his face. It has even formed a small pool in a
hollow in his chest.
This is the Earth, she replied factually.
I cannot abide here, he gasps.
You always have.
No!
She nods and steps away, looking around. The tall
windows attract her again. Gazing out over the bright day
shining upon the dead land, she feels a stirring inside herself,
as though something like an inner sun begins to shine there
too. She wonders at this: What is it? What have I done?
You understand.
These are not her words, and yet they come as though
part of her already.
I know.
She nods to the bright world outside. I know.
She walks back to the natal and says: There is a
shelter prepared for you, if you will take it.
348

I cannot enter. The natal has opened his eyes and is

staring at her with a mixture of entreaty and compassion. But
you are kind, lady.
She bows her head, all of a sudden deeply moved. The
strength of the feeling so surprises her that she cannot speak.
The natal closes his eyes again. I cannot, even so. The
way is not clear. He pauses and glances momentarily at her.
You know that.
Yes. The two were not made one.
She will walk away again, but where will she walk to
this time? There is nowhere to go. She sits on the floor beside
the natal. She says, spontaneously:
I will sit with you.
The natal opens his eyes. He seems to be sweating less.
How can you abide alone? he asks her, an honest
curiosity.
Because I am not alone.
The natal shakes his head slowly, either not believing
her or in wonder at the depth of her delusion.
She explains: I am lonely, but I cannot be alone.
The natal stops shaking his head. He blinks, then closes
his eyes. She sits for so long beside him eyes absently on
the wall some way off that she becomes aware of how the
light in the room changes over time. There are no shadows,
yet the light shifts imperceptibly all the time, changing like a
texture on all the surfaces in the chamber.
At one point the natal says, as if he too watched the
light change in the room though his eyes remain closed
Oh, its getting dark.
349

The light in the room is becoming tinged red. She says,

The sun is setting now.
The natal begins a piteous weeping, forlorn like an
abandoned child. He cries out and begins threshing about on
the floor, arms and legs bouncing with hollow thuds against
the tough elastic surface. This is happening close to her, yet
she does not move.
Finally, the natal opens his eyes wide and shouts:
NOOOOOOOOOO! He looks at her, extreme upset in his
eyes:
The light has gone. He shakes his head frantically:
You dont know what it is like. I cannot live without that
light.
A final upward spasm, as though something is being
torn from him, and the natal collapses flat on the floor, dead.
She sits on, watching how the light continues to change
at the window, seeing the blue of the sky pale to green as the
light ebbs slowly from the room.
Comes the moment, then, when lights in the chamber
switch on, low light with a faint yellow tint, that bathes all
the surface with a warm glow. She stirs herself and wanders
about for a while, unable as yet to connect with the world
around her. She is thinking: how the sun sets each day and
the crises that event can engender. She sees through the
windows that some clouds have gathered in the twilit sky
sees how they stand forth from the fading sky as a set of
luminous shadows.
Shadows. A dying world lit red, inhabited by
insubstantial shadows.
350

She shivers. The room cools as night approaches. She

goes through the main door and finds that the platform has
not come. She would call for it, but remembers enough to
know that it would make no difference.
No machine. Only the dying world of humans.
In any case, she goes through to the subsistence booth.
The gown is still damp, cool to touch. She pulls it on and
braces herself until the worst of the chill has been abated. In
the main chamber, the body of the natal is stark white, utterly
flat against the floor, mouth hanging open, small penis erect,
as though something was drawn even from there at the final
moment.
She goes back out to the vestibule, approaches the edge
and peers down into the dark. Nothing to be seen, of course,
but she finally understands that nobody in this Spire knows
what is happening up here. She returns to the subsistence
booth, keys for a beaker of water. She drains off the water
very quickly not thirsty as such, but her body welcoming
the water nonetheless then goes out to the vestibule again.
She drops the beaker into the dark void. It takes time
for the beaker to fall so far down, but she finally hears the
rattle as it strikes the platform. Then to wait, a sameness in
the artificial light of the vestibule that unsettles her,
something she doesnt remember happening before. Against
this sameness machine sameness, as she sees it there is
the continual change in the world, and in herself.
The platform comes into view, slowing in that steady
fast way it has. The Superintendent is standing in its centre,
braced as though ready to jump. He stares at her.
351

Are you alone?

She nods, stepping with no ceremony onto the
platform.
But you have failed?
She looks up at him. Contact with another living
human is inducing a weariness in her, which threatens to
become a more depressing listlessness. She is curt.
The natal failed. As did the clowns that mentored
him.
The Superintendent does not like hearing this sort of
talk, especially from an old artificial woman.
We act always for the best, as you should know.
The platform drops away suddenly, a sickening lurch
that throws her to one side. Whatever she might reply is lost
in the ensuing nausea. The Superintendent, however, seems
more used to these conditions, for he merely gulps loudly and
then adds:
We dont ask for these responsibilities, you know. The
level of preparation is really minimal. With you, for
instance.
He points over towards her just as the platform stops
its reckless plunging and begins instead one of its fast
slowdowns obviously precisely calculated by some
machine somewhere but nonetheless hair-raising. She is
staring at the natals finger pointing at her. She knows some
kind of ending is coming. She knows this intimately, even
though she has no memory of this happening before. A
feeling of irrelevance is growing in her.
The Superintendent continues in any case:
352

I wasnt aware of the special protocols involved. I

assure you of that. Why didnt you tell me? Saying that I
could kill you was somewhat oblique, wasnt it?
She is still staring at his finger. There is something to
be said. But what is to be said?
The platform stops just then: one instant slowing
rapidly, the next instant no motion at all. Even the
Superintendent seems surprised, though obviously he has
ridden the riser many times before. He staggers slightly and
this prompts him to speak some more:
I mean, have I been instrumental in the failure of your
operation? I know there is an well esoteric element in this
activity. Though of course, I would like to add, nothing as
absurd as deifying a human being. I mean, that is what some
say. I have never given any account to that. But yet, you
know
And now she does speak, interrupting the rambling
Superintendent in a brutal manner:
Why do you persist in not understanding?
The Superintendent is pained by this intrusion. He lays
his right hand flat on his heart.
I, for one, do try to understand. Especially this time,
when it occurs in my Spire.
She walks off the platform, heading for the double
doors immediately before her. The Superintendent hurries
after her, calling in a louder voice:
But you are extremely aggravating, you know. I mean,
you say the most provoking things and then you refuse to
listen to any explanations.
353

She turns about abruptly and shouts harshly:

It is so obvious.
The doors slide open at her approach. A short corridor
leads on to another set of double doors. She stops in the
corridor and waits for the Superintendent to catch her up.
You spend most of your lives driven mad by desire
and you never ask yourselves what it is you desire. She
makes a sweeping gesture with her hand. If you simply
asked yourself that question. Thats all. Nothing else is
needed. No years of study or meditation or special
preparation. Just ask yourselves that one simple question.
She turns away abruptly to continue on down the
corridor just as the Superintendent begins to speak again:
I mean, we could see that Quarimore was seriously ill.
The fevers he endured while he was in our care. Wait, will
you? Im trying to explain the situation to you. He stamps
his foot in his frustration and shouts. Why wont you listen
for a change?
But she has gone through the second set of doors. Ah, a
corridor is as it were passing by her, extending in either
direction left and right, both curving away inwards out of
sight. There are doors along the inner wall only.
She turns right, though her first impulse is to turn left,
and sets off along that stretch of the corridor. At her back the
Superintendent shouts in exasperation:
Not that way! This way.
She turns about and starts off in that direction. The
Superintendent is standing in the middle of the corridor, arms
akimbo, glaring at her.
354

You see? Why dont you wait?

She sweeps past him, saying as though in retort as she
does:
Why cant you see the obvious? The answer is lying
just there, under your noses. You have spent centuries
searching the universe high and low for the answer, and all
the time it is hidden inside each human being. Your lunacy
has depopulated the world, dried it out until it is little more
than a cinder. And you still persist in this ridiculous search
outside yourselves. Dont
Open four, Sam.
A door slides open just as she passes. The
Superintendent shouts: Go in there! She swings left and
enters the chamber. The Superintendent follows her in and
presses the switch by the door that brings up full light. The
door slides shut behind them with a low hiss. The
Superintendent roars, literally roars:
Now please shut up!
She turns and looks at him in surprise. She opens her
mouth to say something, but the Superintendent raises his
right hand with as much dignity as he can manage and says:
Shhhhhhhhhh!
She deflates, that feeling of listlessness returning, a
complete loss of interest. The Superintendent is sardonic in
his experience of victory:
Now thats better.
He walks down the chamber, hands behind his back. A
couch rises from the floor at his approach. He turns to her and
says:
355

This will serve you for tonight. There are all the basic
amenities. Im sure you remember how to use them.
She is a little dumbfounded even so. Only now that the
end has at last come and she can withdraw again, does she
feel that this time there is a difference. She enters the room,
sees the door to the hygiene booth, the little subsistence
alcove, the end-wall screen, the Superintendent standing by
the couch. She says, gesturing:
It will nonetheless happen. It must happen.
The Superintendent gapes at her, only now at the end
realising that he may have misunderstood her all along.
But how can it happen? We dont know.
She sighs, suddenly near to tears, the exhaustion
returning after the demands of the day.
No, you do not understand. You must let it happen.
The Superintendent steps towards her, a nameless
anxiety in his bowels.
Let what happen?
She shrugs, turning away from to go into the hygiene
booth, losing interest again.
They are prepared. They know.
In the booth, she pulls the gown over her head. She
presses the button for the Complete Service. She sinks to her
knees when the water sprays hit her, bending down and
bursting into tears. And yet she feels that she is rising in some
way, not falling to the ground in defeat again. There is a pale
clean light somewhere, glowing at the edge of some dark
horizon.
356

She knows this feeling is called relief, though she

cannot remember ever thinking of it before.
Is this happiness? she asks herself, that remote part of
herself ever-attentive as always. Yes, she answers for herself.
This is happiness.
But once the judgement is made, her mood changes
again, a return in part to the earlier listlessness, but now more
vacant; not so much a loss of interest as the absence of any
memory of a foregoing interest in anything at all.
She washes the gown by the expediency of walking
back and forth on it for a while. The dryers then are very
powerful, drying her in minutes.
The Superintendent is still standing in the middle of the
domicile chamber. He is looking away to somewhere far off,
the fingers of his right hand stroking his lower lip. He starts
when she come back into the chamber and blurts out:
Its all very well saying what you say, you know? But
letting something happen? How is that done?
She is crossing to the subsistence alcove, dragging her
wet gown behind her. She says absently, intent on satisfying
a deep hunger she is only now becoming aware of:
Pretend you are a woman. Do that.
This reply exasperates the Superintendent. Oh, come
on now. In that case, why arent woman getting restored, or
whatever?
She takes the trouble to stop and look up at the
Superintendent, just looking at him without expression until
he suddenly nods and looks away. She goes into the
357

subsistence alcove and examines all the buttons until she

finds the largest meal available.
The Superintendent has followed her and stands at the
entrance to the alcove. He asks, directly but with the nearest
to consideration that he can manage:
Why is that?
She presses for the meal and then presses for milk.
Only then does she answer him:
Why? Because men have the seed. Its that simple.
The Superintendent nods though he cannot understand
what she has said. He knows that if he asks her any question
on this matter, then whatever it was intuition or innate
knowledge he has just assented to, would be put utterly
beyond his grasping.
A soft tone sounds and the hatch opens to reveal a tray
upon which a number of dishes are arranged, along with a
beaker of white milk. She takes them over to the couch. Its
awkward at first she finds that all the controls are manual
here too, while her hands are full but the Superintendent is
quick to grasp the situation. He comes forward and arranges
the couch for eating, even the little table swinging out for her
convenience.
She is so hungry, hungrier than she has felt for a long
time. The food is as ever tasty and fortifying. The
Superintendent stands over her for a while, watching her eat
with an intensity that surprises him. Then he goes and gathers
up her wet gown and puts it into the cleaner hatch. He doesnt
know what to do with himself then, so he follows the walls
around the domicile, hands behind his back, hissing a
358

tuneless air through his teeth. Then back near the couch, he
remarks:
Im assuming that this is not a sexual matter. I mean,
the seed you refer to is not the male spermatozoa, is it?
She has finished her meal, feeling pleasantly replete, a
growing sense that this time again she has done the best she
could in the circumstances. She presses the button that
reclines the couch to sleeping mode. Laying herself out
slowly an edge of indulgence in this she asks:
Will you lower the light for me?
She composes her arms down by her sides, stretching
her legs out to their fullest extent.
The light changes to the low blue light of the machines.
She closes her eyes with a feeling of true relief. Only now
does she wonder, momentarily fretful, if she will be able to
sleep.
The Superintendent has returned to the vicinity of the
couch. He resumes speaking:
Though I need hardly add that I havent a clue what
the seed you refer to is. I suspect it is some esoteric entity.
Perhaps a capacity that can be

359

Towards evening the command comes to form the

circles for the night. The practice by this stage is to form the
convoy into three circles that intersect at a common point,
around the command truck. This is called the Clover defence,
for obvious reasons.
Berenice brings the big caravan around as she is
instructed, its six large balloon wheels turned so that the
vehicle enters crabwise into its place on the number two
perimeter. She waits then until she receives the switch-off
instructions, that tells everyone that the perimeters have been
set.
The relief is palpable.
Even Corry feels it, for she cries out from her little seat
down by the hub for the windows to be opened. Not all of
them, of course even so young a child knows that by now.
Relay relay. Reno announces general evac. Reno
announced general evacuation at sixteen hundred local time.
Berenice tenses, even though she is not on relay duty
this evening. Despite this, she smiles for her daughters
benefit and presses the switch to raise the shutter on the inner
window. Corry claps her hands in delight, releases herself
from her chair and runs across the cabin.
Oh look, mommy, look at the sun! she squeals,
jumping up and down in her excitement.
It happens that they are facing west. The sky is filled
with the burnished light of the sunset, the heavy clouds over
the mountain peaks fiery along their edges, broody grey black
otherwise in their bulk.
360

Call cee four two. Exercise period till nineteen thirty.

Repeat: exercise period now until nineteen thirty. Please
remain within your sector. Thank you.
Berenice releases the harness and swings the chair
away from the screens. The stiffness in her lower stomach is
especially bad. She realises she has forgotten again to take
the breaks during the day. How can I, she complains to
herself, there is no one to relieve me. Yes, but you ought not
to let the tension build up. No, she agrees with herself, I
ought not.
Corry turns at her approach, gesturing that she should
hurry to the window. Oh come and look, mommy. The skys
all on fire!
And so it seems to be. Berenice shivers, seeing how
dirty the light is under the clouds, for all the world like a
huge oil fire. Is it Flagstaff? she wonders, while knowing of
course that cities no longer burn while being annihilated.
She touches her daughters head, comforted by the feel
of Corrys silky soft hair, the smooth curves of her skull
underneath. The impulse is to embrace her delightfully
innocent daughter, to draw from her some grace, enough to
maintain her courage for another few hours.
But of course Berenice doesnt do that. Instead, she
pats her daughters head and says flippantly,
Mountains are sure a great place for sunsets, eh kid?
And Corry is as complicit as her mother, for she looks
up and smiles brightly, very brightly, just as terrified. And
well she might smile so brightly, for the little girl knows that
she must be brave so that her mommy will be brave. And
361

further, because she knows that her mommy dreads looking

out the caravans windows at the now so dangerous world.
She moves away slowly and crosses to the little catering area
at the back of the vehicle, away from windows and the
terrible light it has revealed tonight. She says, to justify the
move:
Im hungry, mommy. Arent you hungry too?
And of course Berenice follows her, hand still hovering
closely above her daughters head, saying in the singsong
tone they use together:
Sure, honey, and what would you like tonight? Apple
pie? Something really nice?
And Corry sings out her reply, trotting ahead of her
mother:
Id like what youd like, mommy.
Her voice is just that bit too high, shrill really if
circumstances didnt make suppressed excitement the norm.
And yet both know that what will be available all that has
been available to them for months now are Mariettas. Dry,
hard, plain, beige, but packed with nutrients. Fabricated to
order in their Other World Pot, they can be eaten either hot or
cold, fresh or stale, but at the rate of no more than two per
day per person. They keep you alive in extremities.
So, all that is needed for their evening meal is the press
of the little green button at the base of the Pot. The button is
pressed and the little miracle machine pipes up immediately:
Water needed here!
Very jaunty, as befitting the whole tenor of the Other
World phenomenon, an apparent infinity of clean energy in
362

return for trickles of plain sweet water. What could be more

idyllic? Except perhaps for humanitys insatiable appetite for
cheap clean energy, obtained at the cost of a finite resource
that is even more essential to human existence.
Berenice says, Drat. Smiles down at her daughter,
who has already perfected the family irony and so can beam
the smile back up to her mother. Berenice squares her plump
shoulders theatrically: Looks like another trip to the well, eh,
honey?
Corry dances her little jig of excitement and runs to get
what they like to call the pail, which in fact is a minutely
calibrated plastic jerrycan holding what has become a Ration
of water, that is, four litres of that by now precious liquid.
Relay relay. Glenwood on route seventy closed.
Repeat: Route seventy at Glenwood Canyon flashed at
sixteen twenty local time. Route seventy west of Denver
closed.
Berenice accepts the pail from her daughter with a
dutiful air, like a willing worker serving her boss. She
wonders where Glenwood is; wonders what this means now.
Is there anyone east of Denver anymore?
Another smile for her daughter returned promptly
and Berenice is away to the well. However, at the door she
hears Corrys shrill scream:
Dont forget your shades, mommy. The daughter has
run over to fetch them from the hook by the door, leaping up
to snatch them down. She hands them to her mother, a serious
admonishment in her voice:
You know you have to wear them, mommy.
363

Sure, Berenice is suitably contrite, but she handles the

polarised spectacles gingerly. She hates them above all else
as the abiding statement of the reality she now inhabits. She
knows that the sky could flash at any moment and that such a
flash could seriously damage your eyes, often leading to
blindness or worse.
Berenice dons the glasses. Corry claps her hands in
relief. Berenice asks with a not entirely mock patience, Now
may I go get the water?
Corry seems not to notice. She rushes to unlock the
cabin door, pulling it open but remaining hidden behind it:
And hurry back, mommy.
Its like taking a giant step, anticipation then
anticlimax, as her foot grinds down the grit that litters the
bare rock. The door slams at her back. Berenice takes another
step, tightening her grip on the handle of the jerrycan. The air
has an acid tinge so much bare dry rock. She looks up and
the glasses darken against the sunset.
There is no wind.
Berenice wonders how long since she was last outside.
Last time she went for water, she tells herself. When? Before
Durango. Oh yes, way before Durango. But when?
Berenice cannot remember. Two days, three, a week?
Who knows? Who cares? For a moment it is as though her
heart has wings, that it will fly away out through her
tightening throat before it is too late. She wonders where
they can be going if they no longer remember where they
have come from. What they have left behind, abandoned.
364

Then it is the water truck, as usual right beside the big

black command vehicle. A queue, as usual, but not many.
The transaction itself doesnt take long. Scan the barcode,
check the screen, insert hose, psshh, and thats it.
The man at the end of the queue looks up as she
approaches. Balding, grainy skin of the dehydrated like the
rest of them, unwashed overall clinging to him. He nods.
Berenice nods. They dont know each other, and he could be
anybody from anywhere. With the dark glasses, you cant
read the eyes, the registers of the soul.
Hi, Bernie.
Oh hi, Martha. This is Martha, next up on the queue.
From Newport via Jacksonville, weeks on the road, passing
through a land theyre all afraid to look at.
Hows it with Corry, honey?
Berenice bobs her head, grimaces, acting like a blind
person though she can see well enough through the shades.
Oh you can guess, Martha.
Martha chuckles, her shapely body wobbly in the loose
overall. Berenice inserts quickly, heading off further enquiry:
And yours, dear, how you all making out?
Martha swivels her head, as though she too is blind,
saying, Oh, you know yourself, Bernie, making do as best
can be. Then she focuses directly on Berenices face, her
hand reaching up for the glasses that cover her eyes. But she
stops herself as quickly, a reflex that indicates that she too
has been bullied into obeying the shades rule. In
compensation, her voice is louder when she continues, the
restriction in one sense implying restrictions in other senses:
365

Janice says shes fallen in love. She now looks at the

man standing between her and Berenice, as though only now
becoming aware of his presence. God, how can they think of
something like that now? Okay, Chuck hasnt changed his
habits much, but how they even think of starting something
like that now? I mean, theres so much involved.
Berenice stares through the dark lenses, not knowing
what else to do. She becomes aware that nobody is out and
about. Only a tall young man walking away from them,
counterbalancing his full jerrycan.
Martha shrugs. Yeah, I know. Thats how she puts it.
Used to be only kids dreamed of love, yeah? I mean,
teenagers did sex, didnt they?
It bothers Berenice that no one has come out, like it
signals a premonition. But she says:
Maybe theyre more serious. She shrugs now,
appreciating thereby Marthas uncertainty. She looks up at
the sky, which is profoundly uninteresting from behind the
shades.
The man coughs and says, quietly out of politeness:
Theyre ready for you.
Oh. Martha jumps, and spins around to face towards
the hatch. Berenice goes back to looking at the greyish sky,
the greyish world of evening time. The man says, standing
quite close to her:
God, its so quiet out here. He looks directly at
Berenice, his eyebrows rising above the wrap round shelllenses. Always loved the desert, you know. Always wanted
to come out here.
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Berenice likes hearing that, for some reason. Maybe

hes coming on to me, she thinks, seeing almost at once
Corrys fury at the loss of focus. Even so, she replies with the
nearest to warmth that she can manage:
You mean all alone under the stars?
The man smiles, a blind mans smile, showing white
teeth that signal good maintenance.
That is, money.
Stars? He darts a look up above. Uh huh. Maybe.
Just the quietness. At first, anyway.
A voice from the hatch calls next. Martha passes,
touching Berenices elbow. You take care now, honey. Both
of you.
Sure, Martha, and you too. A pause, Berenice
watching how the man walks towards the hatch, how straight
his back is, how loose his arms, then she says: And good
luck to Janice, you hear?
The door of the command vehicle opens, throwing
harsh fluorescent light out into the gloaming. That you,
Bernie? Its Sam, the convoy leaders deputy. He signals
urgently with his hand. Berenice steps out of line there are a
handful of people behind her now and approaches the door.
Sam bends to her and says in a low voice:
Corry said you were over here. Jack says to tell you
that an overflight has been reported west of here. Not clear
who. Okay? Get back as fast as you can.
Berenice turns away, not panicking as much as fighting
a novel kind of confusion in her head why tell me now?
The man, turning away from the water hatch, hits against her.
367

Uh, sorry.
Then everything goes dark, pitch-black dark. Berenice
shuts her eyes tight and crouches down immediately, keeping
her head perfectly still. She knows she must not look down or
look away, both reflex actions difficult to control. Just one
stray reflection off an inner surface of the shades could burn a
hole in her head. Literally burn a hole way into her head. She
knows this so well. The burn might not kill you, could merely
blind you or turn you into a gibbering idiot.
Now she counts, counting thousand and one, thousand
and two, all the way up to thousand and twenty. Then she
drops the jerrycan and runs as fast as she can back to the
caravan. Berenice can run fast heavy limbs still well
muscled and all the time she is listening for some sound
behind her. What kind of sound she doesnt know. It could be
the roar of a flame dragon, burning up everything in its path.
It could be some appalling scream that would cut right to the
heart of her own deepest terror, how she fears the pain of
dying more than the actual death itself.
There is only the thuds of her boots on the hard stony
ground, the rising pitch of her laboured breathing.
She opens her eyes long enough to target the door of
the caravan, adjust the aim of her pell-mell flight. She lets
herself run blindly up against the door, elbows braced
forward to take the brunt. The door whips open immediately,
so Berenice shoots on in, foot catching on the step, she going
flat out on the floor.

368

Only then does she realise the extent of her panic. She
rolls onto her back. Corry is leaning over her, a shrewd
expression on her face. Berenice sits up and shouts:
Close the shutter, Corry! Is it shut?
She sees that it is. She looks again at Corry:
Good girl.
Corry shrugs. There was no one out.
Berenice gets to her feet. Corry comes over and places
her little hand flat on her left arm. This has a wonderful
calming effect. Berenice passes her right hand across her
daughters hair, savouring the curves of the childs head, as
she always does.
You did good, kid. She nods for Corry, to show how
serious she is in this.
Berenice sees that the flash alarm is still lit. She goes
over and resets it. Corry has followed, deflated now that the
high excitement has eased. She says: You were lucky,
mommy. She starts to cry, the silent, resigned weeping of
utter misery.
Berenice kneels to embrace her daughter. Oh, I think
it was okay, sweetie. I guess we were in the shadow of the
trucks. She takes the shades off to show Corry. See?
Nothing at all. A pause now while Berenice draws back so
she can gain eye contact: Sam warned me. I was worried
about you, on your own here.
Corry stifles the tears, getting some control over her
abject state again. Berenice has laid her hand on her
daughters shoulder, a reassuring weight for one, a reassuring
support for the other. Now look, honey, it aint no harm for
369

you to be afraid. Sure, were all afraid now. But youre a

perky brave kid, now aint you? Corry nods, tuning into the
seriousness at last. Well, you and me are going to go on
being brave together. Right? Corry nods earnestly. So when
we meet other folk, we wont pull them down by showing
were afraid. You got that, honey?
Corry nods emphatically. Berenice braces her little thin
shoulders. You always were a good kid, Corry. And I sure
am proud of you now.
This is too much for the little girl. She throws herself
into her mothers arms, hugging her as tightly as she can. Its
all Berenice can do to keep the tears back. She holds her
daughter firmly, a steady embrace that she knows will
reassure her.
They get about two minutes of this silent communion
before self-consciousness takes over again. Both are a bit
non-plussed. Berenice, of course, is better at covering for
this. She doesnt hide the falseness in the false cheer she now
assumes:
So, now, kid, what are we going to have for supper?
Corry is up for this. She starts off down the caravan at
a high-kneed gallop, whooping loudly. At the far end, down
by the kitchenette, she stops, pauses, then spins around, her
fair hair flying out, her clear eyes so bright:
I know, mommy. Well have apple pie and some of
that lovely lemonade you make. She runs back towards
Berenice. Remember the lemonade, mommy? She giggles
at the memory. Oh, it used to be so fizzy. Go right up my
nose and make me sneeze.
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Even Berenice has to laugh at this memory, her little

daughter two and a half then with the big tumbler out by
the swing, avidly drinking the lemonade. Then the big
sneezes, Corry very surprised by them, full of a spluttery
laughter.
She could see her daughter so clearly then. See her
intimately as her own offspring, and at the same time see her
beginning the long, inevitable recession from her away into
her own self.
Is this just sad? Berenice wonders. Is that all? Its a
relief to know that they still have something that hasnt been
contaminated by the disasters happening around them. She
shakes her head slowly,
My, but you were a sweet baby, Corry.
Berenice can say this with something like acceptance,
to see that much at least achieved, gaining this perspective on
her daughter. But Corry, of course, is still really only a child,
who regards what is just a natural process as a personal
achievement. She stands back away from her mother, for a
moment consumed by the vanity of her own emerging
identity.
Then something clears and she can say, simply: I sure
am hungry, mommy.
Relay relay. Flagstaff reported flashed. Repeat.
Flagstaff Arizona flashed at eighteen twenty two local time.
First reports state damage extensive. Avoid the area.
Its like a relay closes in Berenices head and she says,
hissing the words at the radio at the other end of the
371

caravan: I knew it. She turns to Corry, who is staring at her

with something like shock.
I felt that, Corry. There was no one out. I just felt
something was going to happen. She puts her hand to her
mouth. God, how many have just died?
Corry says, her feelings already running to extremes,
Mommy, youve gone white! You look like youre dead.
Berenice is startled by the childs mounting hysteria.
What are you talking about?
Corry answers by grabbing at her hair and screaming:
Were gonna die! We all gonna die, mommy!
For an instant, Berenice believes her, which startles
her. In the next instant, she of course does not believe her,
and finds she is hovering between anger and fear for her
daughters sanity. In the next instant, she understands Corry,
by which time she has succumbed to the contagion of her
hysteria. It is like they are caught in the powerful current of
some river.
It is so dark.
What might happen next doesnt happen, for there is a
strong rap on the caravans door. Instantly both mother and
daughter are as though nothing has happened, both very
lucid, both calculating rapidly:
How much have we given away?
Not much, it seems. Sam has his permanent wry smile
for them, holding up their jerrycan. He removes his shades,
blinking in the low caravan light.
Jack thought you might be busy here, Bernie.
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Sam glances at Corry, who is calm in a pale rigid way,

looking like an immature plant for some reason. Berenice
glances at Corry too.
Sure, Sam. Just heard the news.
Sam nods, stepping into the caravan, the jerrycan held
forward as a permit.
Yeah. Jack says well have to cross the desert south
tomorrow. Reckons we might make Phoenix in a day if we
step on it.
He attaches the can to the Pot, hunkering in that limber
way he still has. Corry, especially, is drawn to Sam, liking his
tall dark looks, his sly sarcasm. She comes to stand by him.
Sam rotates on his toes to face her when he has connected the
can.
So howre you making out, kid?
Both Berenice and Sam can see that the child wants to
embrace the man, the need for a nameless reassurance so
strong in her. Corry has clenched her little fists by her sides.
Were doing okay, Sam. You want to stay for dinner?
Sam glances up at Berenice, who raises her brows as
much as to say, Its your call. He straightens up. He smiles
his super-wry smile for her, the one he knows she really likes.
Well, kid, its sure kind to offer. But it looks like well
be busy most of the night, the way things are.
Corry swallows, as though she has completed some
demanding task. Then she nods, an ambiguous relief evident,
as though she has survived some temptation or been saved a
tedious social chore.
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Sure, Sam, she says, touching some kind of more

settled base by speaking his name.
Sam nods at this, his smile softening. He touches the
top of her head with the tip of his index finger.
Another time, maybe, kid. When things are back to
rights, okay?
Corry lowers her head, giving way to a feeling here.
Sam crosses glances quickly with Berenice, the two
exchanging their relief that the child has been able to relent.
Well, I reckon Ill be off now. Sam turns away
towards the door. He brushes Berenices shoulder with the
tips of his fingers as he passes. Jack said to tell you hell try
to drop by for a while later on. Busy night ahead.
He pauses at the door, his tall frame gaunt in his
unwashed overall, handsome face limp and grizzled.
You two be sure to bed down early, you hear. Be an
early start in the morning and a long day to follow.
The door closes with a soft click, Sam habitually gentle
in his ways. But once it is closed, Corry lets out a long
whimper. It is a low basic sort of sound the kind of sound
even animals would make and Berenice can easily handle
that. But it is how Corrys mouth works that really gets to
her. It is as though the child is eating, sucking, blowing,
kissing all at the same time. Once again, it is the
fundamental weirdness of Corrys behaviour that affects
Berenice. It is as though her daughter has simply surrendered
control, as if the formal principle that allowed the child to
cohere as a living being has withdrawn, so that all the myriad
parts to her could go their own ways.
374

The panic is back in Berenice too. Not death this time

mere cessation instead it is the threat of a fundamental
collapse that would render her incoherent too. It is a stark
prospect for as much as a minute: Corry stepping forward as
though to follow Sam, her mouth working while the rest of
her seems to wait for its turn to collapse into confusion.
Nothing. This is what Berenice thinks in that minute,
seeing darkness, cold and silent. But then she thinks: As
though nothing is possible. And that is all it takes for her to
regain control of her own crumbling self, to say in the most
comforting tone she can manage at that moment:
Well, honey, looks as though we can eat now, yeah?
And that is all it takes for Corry too. She comes
together again in an instant, turning her face quickly towards
her mother, flashing her a bright smile. Berenice is fascinated
by her daughters mouth. She knows Corrys smile is cheery
just for her benefit; she is amazed how quickly the child
could adapt herself once she had taken control again.
And Ill fix the table, mommy.
Fixing the table involves lifting the table panel up from
the wall and drawing the support out under it. Likewise, the
seating is brought out from recesses in the wall, but this time
lowered until their legs drop down and hit the floor. Berenice,
meanwhile, has begun the preparation of their meal. This
involves setting the controls of the Pot to produce two
Mariettas and sufficient milk to fill two small beakers. Then
she fetches two side plates and the beakers from the nearby
cabinet and places them in the appropriate positions within
375

the Pot itself, shutting the cabinet door and pressing the large
green button.
Corry, having completed her task, comes to stand by
her mother. Both stare at the Pot, conscious that it is
preparing their evening meal. The Other World process will
not take long, though there is no indication anywhere on the
white plastic drum white for some unknown reason always
the colour of OW machines, big and small of any internal
activity. With nothing happening, mother and daughter can
only becomes more aware of each other. This is the cue for
Corry to step into her little-girl mode, which allows her to fill
the gap between them by asking a little-girl question:
Whats it doing, mommy?
Berenice can easily slip into her wise mother mode
once, of course, Corry has prompted her and she physically
sags as she enters the role, her somewhat busty figure
becoming dumpy in the blink of an eye:
Well, honey, best I understand it is that we send some
water through the Looking Glass thing and the Other World
gives us some of its omnium in return. Then the Pot makes
our supper.
Corry nods as any bright little girl would. Berenice
nods as any informative mother would. They nod together,
both quite stupefied by their shared ignorance of what
actually is happening, until the Pot issues its soft, comforting
chime that tells them that their meal is ready.
Press the blue button and the little door springs open to
reveal their supper, one nice Marietta on each plate and the
beakers filled with cool creamy milk. Berenice takes the
376

plates to the table; Corry reaches up and collects the beakers

and brings them to the table. They sit opposite each other,
Berenice positioning the plates, Corry pushing her mothers
beaker across in her direction. Then there is nothing else to
do but eat and drink, which they both do in the steady way
that the frugal have with their limited means.
But there is some difference this evening. Death and
destruction on an apocalyptic scale is close to hand. Just
sitting there nibbling the round paten of the biscuit and taking
little sips of omnium-based milk is simply not sufficient for
this evening. So Corry resumes her little girl mode again,
holding her partially consumed biscuit up:
Mommy, why are they called Mariettas?
Berenice is surprised by this question. Havent I told
you the story before?
Corry shakes her head, her bright eyes huge in her little
round face. Berenice cant remember telling it to her, either.
So maybe she has never told her.
Okay, kid. Reckon this is as good a time to tell you as
any. Well, now. Berenice takes a really deep breath. A long
time ago there was a Queen who ruled a country called
France. Her name was Marie Antoinette. She was a beautiful
woman who had come from another country to marry the
King of France. She of course was very rich and powerful
and lived a life of luxury in a huge palace. The country she
ruled was a very rich land with a long history. But one year
there was a very bad harvest, which led to famine among her
subjects. When the Queen heard about this, she was very
upset and asked how this could happen. It was explained to
377

her that because bad weather had destroyed the grain crop,
there was no bread for the people to eat.
Now, the Queen did not have much experience of the
lives of her subjects, having lived all her life in palaces
served by many servants. But she did give some thought to
the problem facing her people and so arrived at a solution.
She called her council and declared she had the solution to
the problem of famine in the country which was beginning
to worry the court very much. Her solution was very simple.
If the people couldnt eat bread, then perhaps they should eat
cake instead. Her counsellors were very surprised to hear this.
The Queen, however, would not be put off. She pointed out
that while bread might be scarce, there was certainly a lot of
cake available. She argued further, that cake would serve as a
very good substitute for bread, citing her own case, where she
explained that she could not remember the last time she ate
bread.
The court was very amused by all this. The Queen was
angry that no one would take her seriously. So one day she
had her chief baker brought into her presence. She explained
the problem of the shortage of bread to him and her solution
to this problem. The Queens chief baker was a small old
man, very learned in the arts of bakery and with many years
of experience in producing all kinds of delightful cakes for
his royal employers. Unlike many of the royal servants, the
old baker was respected by the Queen. It was possible for
him, then, to do what no one else dared or cared to do,
and that to tell Her Majesty that cake was too expensive for
378

the common people. That is, that her starving subjects could
not afford to eat cake.
The Queen had never reason to consider these matters
before. She actually knew practically nothing about the lives
of those she ruled. Now, the Queen was very conscious of her
rank and insisted that everyone observe its dignity but she
was not a proud person herself. So it was possible for her to
ask for the old bakers advice. He was very patient with Her
Majesty, explaining in detail how bread and cake were made.
He also made her aware that there was another kind of baked
food, that is the biscuit, in which could be combined the
advantages of both bread and cake. This information inspired
the imagination of the Queen, who immediately conceived
the possibility of designing a biscuit that could feed her
people in these straitened times. So the old baker was given
the task of producing a new kind of biscuit that could replace
bread.
Well, the old man was gone for more than a week a
long time in the middle of a famine and one morning he
was shown again into Her Majestys presence. He carried a
small plate covered with a white muslin cloth. He laid the
plate on a little side-table and had it brought forward to the
throne. The Queens curiosity of course had by now become
avid, so much so that she rose to her feet and came closer to
the table. The old baker did enjoy this moment of being the
centre of attention, for the whole court had fallen silent when
the Queen got to her feet. Even so, he was a very wise man
and so not seduced by vanities. He simply responded to the
Queens unfeigned curiosity by drawing away the muslin
379

cloth. On the plate lay a thickish waver that would lie

comfortably in the palm of a man. It was the colour of lightly
baked crust, with a smooth surface and regular form. The
Queen of course could hardly contain herself. She reached to
take the biscuit, obviously very curious to taste it.
However, the old man leaned forward and laid his
hand over the biscuit to prevent this happening. There was a
murmur through the court: no one intervened in the action of
a French monarch. The baker bowed to demonstrate his
humility and begged Her Majesty to listen to what he had to
say before she sampled the confection. He spoke in a low
voice for the Queens ears only. He explained that this
miraculous biscuit had been made possible by the existence
of a secret ingredient in the universe, described in a very
ancient document. Because of this secret ingredient, he told
her, eating but one of these biscuits a day would maintain the
perfect health and tranquil spirit of any man, woman or child
in the realm. But, he whispered to her, this would happen
only if that person ate no other food of any kind. If a person
should attempt to do this, then the secret ingredient would
immediately become a poison that would kill the person in a
matter of hours. In other words, he explained, only a starving
person could begin to live off these biscuits, for only a
starving person would have no other foodstuff in his or her
body.
The last thing the old baker did was to bow down
before the Queen with full ceremony and announce in a
louder voice that the biscuit had been named the Marietta in
her honour. The Queen appeared to be very flattered by this
380

honour, for she was seen to flush red in response, so that the
whole court broke out into loud applause.
Corrys face suddenly crumples, tears springing into
her eyes. Berenice is aghast. It is like her daughters face is
melting and about to run down off her little round skull to fall
in blobs like candle wax on the table. Berenice is seriously
frightened by this, but this time the fear does not overbear
her. She feels it finds an abode in her, as though there is an
appointed place in her for this terminal fear.
Even so, she says out of concern for her little child,
who is yet so immature and vulnerable:
Aw, Corry, help me out here, will you?
Call cee four two. This is Jake Geats. Reckon you
folks know what happened over at Flagstaff tonight. So
therell be a change of plan for tomorrow. Well head down
the old one nine one a ways, then cut across the desert
towards

381

She starts awake. What was it?

Is it dark? No light. Still the question persists: What
was it?
She moves her foot and it feels as though her leg
extends away and away into the far distance.
Am I dead?
Ah, youre awake. At last. We thought you would be
very tired after all your exertions over the last few days. So
we took the liberty of keeping you asleep as long as possible.
Raise the caul, Sam.
Its Don.
The low blue light hurts her eyes.
Ah, Donandis. Raised the caul, if you will. Ah.
Youve done it.
Why did I think I was dead?
Rest for a moment, Carabella. It was decided to cover
you with the caul to help you sleep deeply. They were used
long ago to cut off all the noises in the Spire. Apparently,
there was a lot of background noise, both night and day.
These cauls were designed to dampen all that noise. We
thought that you might be over-sensitive to whatever noises
linger here. These structures creak, you know. Sometimes
quite loudly, too. There are the trains, too, though were not
supposed to be able to hear them. But some say they do, so
we took that into account too.
There was a bright flash. Yes. A dream? Of death?
Yes. Of death. Like something separating.
The light is not so bad this time, still that low blue
light.
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Ah, good. You should be alright this time. We had no

way of preparing you for the effect of the caul. Apparently
you can suffer a form of deprivation that can be fearsome for
some. Were you frightened at any time?
The figure is dim in the dim light, but evidently a natal.
She suddenly coughs, and as she coughs she remembers
yesterday. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
He died. He was not restored.
The natal stoops towards her, his long hair falling
forwards over his shoulders.
Yes, we know. Very unfortunate. How many times
now? Fifteen, we believe. Though of course you dont
remember.
She sits up. There is some stiffness, but no pain.
I am hungry. I am thirsty.
The natal seems surprised to hear this.
Hungry? Well, of course you are. Light, Sam.
The white light hurts her eyes all over again. She
thinks of bright light, feeling a hollowness that should
perhaps be dread.
I presume you know how to use the feeder? I will
leave you to refresh yourself. You can ask Sam for anything
you need.
The natal limps away heavily, favouring his right leg.
Its Don, if you will.
She has put her hands over her face. The light still
disturbs her, causing her to think of something like long
shards of glass that stretch out immense distances into an
empty dark space. What disturbs her most here is the notion
383

of inertness. The transparency of glass and yet its sterile

quality that it is nothing more than a permissive structure.
You should eat, artificial.
She starts. She is reluctant to remove her hands from
her face she might be disturbed by her introspection but
there is nonetheless something very familiar about it but
she does so anyway.
There is no one in the chamber.
Whos speaking?
Me. The Controller.
The machine?
No. Theres no machine here.
She gets down from the couch. Her legs are not strong,
but again there is no pain. The sustenance hatch is familiar.
She keys for milk, then keys for the activity meal. The feature
of glass shards that is disturbing is the resistance. The
implacability. She looks around. There is a barrier.
Everywhere there is a barrier.
A ping and the hatch slides up to reveal the beaker of
milk and tray of food. She takes them back to the couch and
eats standing there, the tray resting on the surface of the
couch. Yet she knows she is not dismayed by the existence of
this barrier. She could ask why she is not, but she doesnt.
The barrier is there.
What? Arent you ready yet? The natal limps across
the chamber until he stands on the opposite side of the couch.
He is not as tall as most natals, perhaps because his form in
bent. Yet he is not old. The Committee is waiting to
interview you.
384

Then she has a very strange thought: Is this what death

being dead is like? She shivers. How is it possible for me
to see into the land of the dead? The very possibility frightens
her so much that she involuntarily whimpers.
The natal is startled to see the little woman flinch and
clutch at the couch. He looks around the chamber, then asks
hesitantly:
Whats the matter, artificial? I know you have to cope
with another failure of your mission, but surely you are used
to that by now.
No. I can see the dead, only see them. I dont know
what its like to be dead. She sighs, a lot less frightened now.
The vision of the long shards as of glass extending out a long
way into the dark now comes to fascinate her. She says,
whispering out of that fascination:
The dead are ordered. She looks over at the natal,
who is crouching so low that his eyes are on a level with hers.
Do you see? The dead are ordered. Then she says
something she does not understand, acknowledging her lack
of understanding even as she speaks:
The dead are as if one in their death.
The natal draws back immediately. He looks around
him again, this time as if to seek support. He moves away
though its obvious that while he is eager to get away from
her, at the same time he wants to remain close to her and
limps down the chamber to the hygiene booth. He presses for
the complete service. Hot water gushes immediately, steam
condensing down along the stream.
The natal steps back into the chamber again.
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You should prepare now for the meeting, artificial. Do

not keep the Mentors waiting.
She has stepped away from the couch, turning towards
the natal:
No! Will you pay attention!
The natal is stunned by her tone. He straightens as best
as he can:
Remember who you are and where you are. However
important you think you are, you are still an artificial.
She shakes her head. But you must try to understand
this. The dead are one.
The natal now shakes his head. He indicates the
hygiene booth:
There is no time for that now. You must prepare for
the meeting. The Mentors will answer all your questions.
Now her agitation increases, for the vision is fading
and she is afraid she will forget it in the way she forgets
everything else. She hurries down towards the natal, shouting
in her shrill voice:
Will you stop talking at me! Im trying to tell you
something of the greatest importance.
The natal answers by grabbing her arm when she is
near enough and propelling her onwards into the hygiene
booth. He draws over the door behind her.
The water is hotter than she expects, and she yelps
loudly. She tries to evade the jets but they follow her around
the booth. Then comes the moment when she slips and falls.
The jets are unrelenting as she threshes about on the floor.
386

Finally, she loses her temper, scrambles to her feet and

screams:
STOP!
The jets cut off. The booth is full of eddying steam, her
skin tingling all over.
That was a stress test. It is designed to overcome the
effects of the caul deprivation. Now the normal cleansing
process will begin. Please be patient.
The jets begins again, the water pleasantly warm on
her sensitised skin. Then it is as though some force grows
mighty in her gut. She feels she is expanding at an explosive
rate, that she will shortly fly apart into a myriad of little
pieces.
She screams loudly in terror.
At once the door of the booth draws open and the natal
hobbles in, a mixture of consternation and amazement at the
sight of the little woman electrified in the way that she is. He
opens his mouth to speak, but she has already thrown herself
onto him, one arm tightly around his neck, the other groping
under his gown. The natal has poor balance, so they fall in a
heap together onto the flooded floor, he now frantic to pull
his robe free from the tussle too. They do manage it, then she
bears down on him, scrabbling compulsively, in a frenzy to
get him into her.
Oh but the pain! Like probing an open wound, a
searing pain that erupts at the centre, at once everywhere in
her body. She groans with relief, the pain telling her that she
is still alive, still present in some real way. And with the
relief there grows a kind of darkness in her womb a dark
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fire smouldering though apparently still. She knows that

this is an emptiness growing in her, a vacancy, and she knows
that she will be consumed by it.
The natal is unable to resist her, his thin body
shuddering in its passion, the ejaculation so brutal that he
cries out in agony. And she is consumed in this, like a sheet
of paper burning, a flare of light then only a crinkle of ash
remaining.
The natal is writhing on the wet floor, his heavy wet
gown twisted about him in a way that aggravates his
deformity. He tries to straighten it, but the lassitude is so
strong that he cannot concentrate and so must endure the
heavy ache along his spine. But he can say to her even so:
You dont know what it is like. A cripple among the
natals. To find love and passion so suddenly.
She feels so wonderfully hollow, as though some
impurity has been burnt away. She is nothing but surface, like
a huge balloon.
There is blood flow.
The water jets cut off.
Please present for examination.
She says, unimaginably expanded,
The dead are everywhere.
It happens that the probe can examine her. Its entry is
feather soft, ticklish against her tender flesh, so that she
squirms and giggles.
The natal is less detached by now, much more aware of
his unpleasant situation. He is now trying to roll over onto his
back not the best position for him, given the nature of his
388

deformity. But he does manage to say when he hears her

giggle:
It is so wonderful to find such joy under these
circumstances. To see love overcome adversity in this way.
Hearing his voice reminds her. She turns her head to
look at him, seeing him lying helpless in the twisted wet
gown, his arms waving uselessly:
Remember what I say, natal. The dead are
everywhere. Even in you they are all gathered.
She experiences a dart of heat inside her.
Further treatment will be necessary to effect a
complete recovery. You should transfer yourself to the couch
in the main chamber. This should be done at once.
The natal is lying on his back now, but finds that the
weight of the gown is pressing his chest. He pants loudly, but
manages to say:
Oh dearest, I do advise you to follow those
instructions. If anything should happen to you. There are no
further words: the natal has been reduced to a series of
coughing sobs as strong emotion further restricts his
breathing.
The driers begin to play over her body. Under their
influence, she first rolls over on the wet floor, then the
chilling surface prompts her to get to her feet. She finds the
supine body of the natal blocking her way. Not confident of
her own strength and balance, she skirts him widely and in
this way manages to get out of the hygiene booth. But at the
doorway, she pauses and turns around to face the natal. She
speaks slowly this time, intent:
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Each time I see these truths but forget them when I reenter reality. This time you might remember, yes?
The pain afflicting the natal is intense. He is finding it
increasingly difficult to breathe. He waves his arms to draw
attention to his predicament.
She goes into the main chamber and climbs onto the
couch. She wants to sleep now.
Timbokto? Timbokto, where are you? Where is
Timbokto?
The hairy face of a stout natal stares at her from the
large wall screen. His right eye is deeply bloodshot in one
corner, the red brilliant against the pallid flesh. She says
shortly, in reflex:
I dont know.
The natal is immediately startled, his head bobbing
about as though he was blind. He shouts impatiently:
Sam! The tracking camera. Where is the tracking
camera, Sam?
The answer is muted from her position because the
voice speaks in the natals chamber only:
It is set for Timbokto, Mandarin. As you requested.
The natals eyes narrow with irritation:
Then can you set it on whoever is speaking. Please.
The last word is surprisingly conciliatory, given the
natals apparent frustration.
Timbokto is distressed, Mandarin. In the hygiene
booth.
The natal on the screen flicks his head rapidly from
side to side:
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Yes, yes. We can deal with that in a moment. First

IAh. Its as I thought. Our little artificial. He smirks
unpleasantly, the stiff hairs about his thin mouth bristling.
Our saviour, as I am informed. Now he looks away, to the
right then to the left, then he looks up: Sam, she is naked?
That little cripple was sent over to get her prepared. Where is
he?
There seems to have been an incident, Mandarin.
The natal gives out a dry sarcastic laugh:
Not the first, apparently. We should never have let an
artificial an artificial woman, moreover into the City. You
can see that I was right in my misgivings, cant you? They
are completely ungovernable.
The natal has returned his attention to what the
tracking camera is showing of the chamber. Now his face
becomes peaky, nose in the air, nostrils flaring. His hand
comes into view pointing:
Has she gone to sleep again, Sam? Will you waken
her. Please do what you can to get her dressed. I will have to
send someone else over to collect her.
She is not asleep, of course, but she is in that state of
abstraction where the senses are as aware as usual in fact
even more aware than usual while the capacity to respond
has been put in abeyance. Yet she does not think in this
empty place much to her relief. Instead she floats as though
in a bubble of soft light, a sense of potential pervading: a
sense that she should be doing something, considering
something, while she experiences a peculiar satisfaction, even
wholeness, despite the lack.
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She knows enough to know that this is a reward. She

thinks fleetingly about this, realising at once what this must
signify.
I have succeeded!
The joy that pervades her seems capable of expanding
to include the whole world and all its miseries.
Carabella?
The voice is in the chamber now, very close.
Carabella? You must get up. They are coming for you
now.
She can hear the voice very clearly, even hearing the
very faint echo that accompanies it, as though the person
spoke in a very small space far away.
Carabella? Please, for everyones sake.
The joy is like a pin point she stands on, that raises her
above the world, even though it should be impossible to stand
erect on a pinpoint.
She opens her eyes and says:
I can go into reality now.
No! There is emotion in the voice. Not yet,
Carabella. You have one more task. Now please stand up and
put on the gown.
She does not decide to slide off the couch, she just
does it. She stands erect then, standing on the pinpoint yet
standing steady.
The gown is at your feet, where Timbokto dropped it.
The gown is green. She says:
No. The gown. I want the gown.
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A drawer in the wall over by the screen slides out. On

it lies the old gown, clean and folded.
Now, please dress.
That she does, the gown dropping down over her body
with a brittle scrabbling from its worn fibres. She shivers.
The outer door slides open. The natal is a woman, tall,
long fair hair, extremely beautiful. She says, staring with
unfeigned curiosity at her:
You must be the artificial I have been sent to collect.
Its the voice that answers:
Her name is Carabella, Zwintore. She is in a
distressed state at the moment.
She asks, staring with acute intensity at the very
graceful natal:
Are you a mother?
The natals face wrinkles, which does not detract from
her stunning features in any way:
What business of yours is that, artificial?
She turns away, abashed rather than annoyed. The wall
screen now shows a long chamber, high windows down one
side and a large round table in the centre. The chamber is
empty.
I have never met a mother, natal. I am curious.
The sky in the high windows is a bright blue.
The natal has turned away to face towards the door she
has just come through. The gown she wears is deep blue in
colour, loose fitting, but it hugs her long flank as she turns.
That still does not make it any of your business,
artificial. Are you ready to come with me?
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Zwintore, please dont be so cruel. Carabella has

sacrificed her life to helping us. At least show some
consideration for that fact.
The natal swings about, staring at the ceiling from
where the voice seems to come:
I am not required to be kind to the artificial, Donandis.
You should keep to your duty, in any case.
She has walked across to be closer to the screen. She is
relieved to see the blue sky in the windows of the chamber
there, feeling as though she is drinking cool water. She asks,
her voice cracking as she attempts to gain the attention of the
natal:
Are we going to this chamber?
My task is to lead you to a door, artificial. What lies
beyond the door, I dont know. Nor does it concern me. She
sweeps a long slender arm towards the outer door. Now, will
you just follow me without any more fuss.
Carabella, just go with her.
She does follow the natal out into the corridor, doing it
without any hesitation in fact eager to get to the room with
windows opening to the sky. So she follows the natals long
slender figure the deep blue gown billowing out behind her
down the curving corridor. Then its through an arch into
an open area where a round platform seems to hover in the
air. The natal steps on this and turns to stare hard at her until
she too steps onto the platform, when she presses a bead set
into the underside of her left wrist. Immediately, the platform
shoots up into what proves to be a long tube-like arrangement
that stretches away up the Spire.
394

At first the natal stays away towards the far side of the
sizeable platform, staring fixedly before her, obviously not
encouraging any talk between them. But then she grimaces
violently a change of expression that does distort the
harmony of her features and turns her head to stare at her.
Why cannot a woman embrace the Angel of Glory?
She speaks with a stinging tone, the deep bitterness evident
here disquieting in one who seems well favoured. Why only
men, artificial?
She is profoundly surprised by the question, at once so
personal and yet so stupid. It is hard for her to take the
trouble to answer, seeing no reason why her own bliss should
be disturbed by such a trivial question.
The natal is at once impatient with her hesitation.
They tell me only men have the ability, artificial. It is
men who tell me this, so I dont believe them. But Ive
demeaned myself as much as any man does and nothing
happens. I hear no voice, I see no visions. And I never feel
enlarged by the presence of the Spirit.
She shrugs and answers, obviously to the point:
You have just said it yourself, natal. The woman does
not have the means. She shrugs again, becoming somewhat
contemptuous of the natals stupidity. Thats just it, the way
it is.
But what about you? The natal now shrieks, her wide
mouth open fully in a fearsome way. I know you are only an
artificial, but arent you a woman too. How can you do it?

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She is genuinely thrown by this sudden change of

direction in the natals rage. Me? I dont know any Angel of
Glory, natal.
The natal reaches the limit of her anger and frustration
and breaks down in tears. She is moved by this, seeing how
badly this natal woman has been treated. So she decides to
tell her:
Natal. She waits until the natal stops her crying and
looks at her. I will tell you this once. A woman cannot
perform the marriage that permits the two to become one.
Only a man can do that. You will have to wait until you next
become a man in order to achieve this.
The natal is shocked to hear this and opens her mouth
to protest, but she raises her hand to silence her.
But bear this in mind. The natal men do not know how
to perform that marriage, so that when what they call the
Restoration begins it usually kills them in a matter of hours.
The platform abruptly stops rising, throwing the two
woman off balance. She, not being used to the performance
of the platform, falls over. The natal copes better, merely
stumbling once and then steadying herself in a habitual way.
The natal sees the blood on the platform, at the spot
where she had been standing, sees then how it has stained the
hem of her gown. She shrieks again and shouts:
Oh what are they doing to you?
Its more than the natal can stand. She runs away out
through the arch and into the corridor beyond.
The surface of the platform is surprisingly soft and
warm. She curls her legs up tightly. The bliss seems to
396

strengthen within her. She closes her eyes, fully prepared to

surrender to the bliss and never want again to waken.
You must go on, Carabella. You must get up now.
No. She wants to withdraw, her task finished. The aura
of the bliss induces a sense of availability, inviting her to
enter.
Get up, Carabella. You must complete your task.
No, she murmurs loud enough to drown what else the
speaker might say. Even so, she hears what it tells her next:
If you do not go by yourself, they will send someone
else to bring you to them.
She knows this is true. She compresses her body as
tightly as she can into a ball. She is trying to squeeze herself
into the bliss, a carnal desire in this as though the bliss was
an organ she could actually enter.
The bliss vanishes with a pop. Only a dull emptiness
remains, flat with no expectation at all.
She is surprised for some reason. She wonders if she
has forgotten something already.
There you are, artificial. As you can see, I have come
for you myself this time.
The natal is very tall, hair covering the lower part of
his face. His bright eyes are very vivid. His arms seems very
long, hands bony and thin. He points at her:
Now, get to your feet. The Committee is waiting for
you.
He steps onto the platform, sees the pools of blood, the
stains on the hem of her gown. He steps back again, an
expression of fear alternating with revulsion on his face.
397

What have you been doing, you dirty woman? He

gestures brusquely for her to get up and follow him. How is
the Committee supposed to interview you in this state?
He doesnt wait for her, but then he doesnt walk very
fast either. She gets to her feet once again without giving
the action any thought only to find that the blood that has
dribbled down the inside of her gown is cold and sticky
against her legs. The skin around her knees, especially, is
crawling in a particularly unpleasant way, goosepimples
elsewhere sending waves of chill right up into her body.
The natal is still talking, loudly and with an impotent
vehemence. I sent my daughter to fetch you this last time in
the hope that she at least, as a woman, would be proof against
your wiles. But no. Even her, my lovely sweet Zwintore,
could not protect herself against your malicious tongue.
At the end of the short corridor there is a junction with
a wider passageway, high ceilinged and brightly lit, which
curves away left and right on either side. The natal turns left
out of sight, but still she can hear his loud voice, a
declamatory element creeping in:
You are sworn to silence in these religious matters,
but what do we hear but you preaching your nonsense to the
detriment of the faith of others?
The sticky blood is causing the gown to drag on her
body, which of course is creating discomfort everywhere by
now. She finally loses all patience and drags the gown over
her head and drops it on the ground.

398

The natal is standing in the middle of the passageway,

arms akimbo, his red mouth pursed and fat. His eyes widen
when she appears. He literally shrieks:
You foul creature! You think now to seduce me? He
raises both arms in the air, which makes him appear both
menacingly tall and ridiculously thin and elongated.
Mandarin, the Committee has convened and is
waiting.
The voice booms all along the passageway. The natal
immediately crouches, arms dropping by his sides until they
almost touch the ground. He is stricken.
You cant appear before the Mentors in this state, he
says, an imploring expression on his face. What would they
think of us here in Phoenix? He suddenly trots away down
the passageway, then trots back again. He raises his head and
shouts:
Sam! Please arrange for a gown here. Immediately.
All this shouting seems to have brought another person
out into the passageway. A young man, too short in stature to
be a natal, glances briefly from the raging natal to her. He
makes what can be only a whimsical moue and nods. He
signals that she should come.
She does, again responding without reflection. He steps
back and she follows him into a small compartment, bare
except for a small panel beside another door across the room.
He smiles at her as she enters and says in a low confiding
tone:
Same as usual, eh?
399

Anyway, he closes the door to the passageway, crosses

the room and presses a button on the panel. The inner door
opens. He signals for her to enter with him, and when she
does, he presses another button on another panel that closes
the door again.
She is surprised by what she sees. The man comes to
stand beside her quite close and he nods for her benefit,
saying:
Yes, I know, its not what you expected. We always
give the impression that there is an important meeting under
way. It impresses them and what harm is there in that?
There are a number of seats formed in a circle, but no
large table. She looks around at the walls.
Weve closed the windows already. He stands away
so that she can see him. Would you like to see out?
Before she can answer, a small door at the far end of
the chamber opens and a file of three persons enters. Each
smiles at her in turn, the smiles welcoming and even intimate.
We are your Mentors. I am, as you can see, the
youngest of the group. I have mentored you now for six
years. On the right there is Ovaltire. As you can see, he is a
natal. He is now the oldest among us and has watched over
you for many years. Almost from the beginning, in fact. Next
to him is Catratsion. She is, like myself, an artificial. We, like
you and a few others, were carefully bred by the Union. I
dont know if you know this, but this project has extended
over three hundred years, and has involved much care and
suffering for both the Guides and the Incarnates themselves.
Catratsion has mentored you for almost twenty years now,
400

and though we do not expect you to remember such details,

she has been like a sister to you through many of your crises.
And last but of course not least is Getrydi. He is another
natal, but this time from the minority branch. Few will be
aware of this, but the orient natals have contributed a greater
proportion of their numbers to this project than almost any
other branch of the human race.
She grows weary during this address and feels she
could take the liberty of sitting down in the nearest of the
chairs, a little in front of the young artificial and so closer to
the short line of doting natals and artificial.
We know you do not carry memories of necessity, I
want to assure you of each Outing, but we have developed
the custom of outlining the project for you at the end of each
of your Outings. So, if you will bear with us just a little
longer, I will try to explain in as few words as possible just
what we are about.
He takes a deep breath. She says, I am thirsty. Then
she adds in a separate breath, I am hungry.
The artificial woman jumps to her feet and rushes over
to her, eyes bright as she approaches. She puts her hand out
to her, saying:
Come, I will take you to our little dining hall and there
you will have whatever pleases you.
The blood on her thighs is congealed, gluing her to the
seat. She whimpers in panic, but the artificial woman takes
her by the hand and pulls her to her feet. She finds that she is
tremoring again, her legs all goose pimples. She clutches the
hand that holds hers:
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I am cold now.
The artificial women immediately reaches to embrace
her shoulders and draw her into her own warmth. Come,
she croons tenderly, and we will deal with that also.
Through the little door on the far side of the chamber
there is a smaller chamber with arranged tables and chairs.
The artificial woman leads her across this chamber and
through another door into what is obviously a hygiene booth.
She is stood in the centre of the booth. The artificial says, I
will leave you here while you are attended to. She presses
one of a row of studs just inside the door and quickly steps
out, drawing the door behind her.
The hygiene unit is thorough. There are moments of
extreme discomfort, but at the end of the process she feels
vastly improved in wellbeing. The machine says, curtly but in
a soft rounded tone:
Serious lesions detected. Lengthy period of complete
rest indicated. You should take note of this recommendation
because you are in danger of dying.
The door slides open again and the artificial woman
reappears, beaming with pleasure to see her so revived.
Now come, my dear. We must dress you. Then we can
see to your sustenance.
She lays her arm across her shoulders and gently but
firmly leads her out into the larger chamber. When she sees
the blue gown laid out across the back of a chair, she draws
back. The artificial woman is patient:
No, you must dress yourself, my dear. That is proper.
402

But she is adamant, and pulls vigorously against the

artificial womans restraint. She says, quietly but with
obvious determination:
I cannot wear blue.
The artificial woman relents immediately. She crosses
to the wall and presses there, so that a shallow drawer slides
out from the wall.
You have previously worn blue, my dear. We did not
know of your changed preference. Will you come and choose
a gown for yourself.
There are gowns laid in the drawer in almost every
colour. She chooses a gown coloured vivid red. The artificial
woman helps her don it, saying awhile:
Such a bright colour, my dear. I have no memory of
you ever having worn such a bright colour before. You had
always preferred a more subdued tone. Perhaps then
She is now dressed and she says with brutal directness:
I am thirsty. I am hungry.
Sure enough, the artificial woman at once hurries away
to a shallow alcove set in one of the walls. There are some
low sounds and then she returns carrying a tray, which she
sets down on the nearest table.
Now, sit here, my dear. See what I have brought you.
The meal she recognises comprehensive, as for
recovery but the liquid is unknown to her. The artificial
woman notes her hesitation immediately and explains:
Yes, that is what is called tea, my dear. You will like
it. Tea contains caffeine, and caffeine is available to the elites
403

only. It gives clarity of mind, you see, but it can excite the
irrational also, unfortunately.
The liquid is hot and bitter. She drinks most of it
straight away to counter her thirst.
The artificial woman has sat down opposite her,
elbows on the table and leaning forward so much that her
brows crease deeply right up onto her bald scalp when she
looks at her. She too is drinking tea. She says, blurting her
words in her excitement:
I admire your missionary work, my dear, but I want to
tell you that I really envy the time you spend in the
actualities. I have always wanted to play a part in an
actuality. Yes, I know we are supposed to frown on such
mass entertainment, but I freely admit to watching the
actuality shows when I can. I mean, I find so much truth in
them. Im not sure how they are made I mean, they can be
so life-like its sometimes frightening. My favourite can I
tell you? There is this episode that I watch over and over. Its
about a man called Christopher Columbus. Apparently he
lived about one thousand five hundred years ago. He sailed
across what was then the Atlantic Ocean and discovered the
American continents for the Europeans. Look, there is a part
in it that I must tell you about. They are on this ship on their
way across the huge ocean. On board is an aristocrat called
the Duke of Orro who is a representative of some king who
has an interest in the voyage. Anyway, this Duke and
Christopher Columbus are talking up on deck. The sun is
setting before them into the blue ocean and it is very quiet.
And the Duke says to Christopher Columbus, Does it not
404

trouble your conscience, sir, that you are about to lead whole
nations into the deepest of delusions? And Christopher
Columbus pauses before answering, gazing steadily out at the
huge red ball that is the setting sun. Then he says simply,
They will sink into even worse delusions if not, your
Excellency. Isnt that a wonderful answer, my dear?
The door opens and the young artificial man enters,
saying:
There is not much time now. We must continue with
the ceremony.
The artificial woman clasps her hands together as a
sign of her contentment and says, glancing from the artificial
man to her and back again:
What is you favourite actuality show, Petero?
The artificial man must pause to think. Im not sure I
have a favourite. He glances at her, suddenly wry: I dont
watch many, you see. But, yes. There is one I have seen a
number of times that strikes a chord, as it were. He presses a
finger to his lips, his brow corrugating with concentration.
Well, its where
The old natal enters the dining hall, bending slightly to
peer down at the assembled artificials. He speaks in a low
voice, a tentative quality that indicates restraint:
Perhaps we should finish our business, artificials.
Time presses.
She stares at the natal for a moment, as though
surprised to see him there. She looks around her. The liquid
she has drunk is having its effect. She feels like she is an
utterly empty chamber that she has just left, closing the door
405

after her. Hence the reflex of looking around the now

crowded dining hall.
The artificial man is saying, grinning in the charming
way he has:
Still its an interesting proposition. I mean, I can
remember clearly the first time I heard it
The artificial woman who also has had the benefit of
the tea cuts in, exploding into a thoroughly vapid mirth:
There is no hurry, my dear Ovaltire. No rules are set
for us, remember?
The natal is disturbed by the response of the artificials.
He raises a thin hand in admonishment.
Her meal finished, she gets up from the table and goes
into the other chamber. The little natal, with his wrinkled
ivory skin and narrow dark eyes, is alert to her, as though he
expected her to return precisely when she did. And she looks
around this chamber too, seeing its utter vacuity too, how the
inessential falls away once you have grasped the essential.
The natal stands up as she approaches, a mark of
respect that she doesnt immediately understand. He inclines
his head and says in a very clear though small voice:
You wear red, Lady?
She nods, seeing him as though a sentinel fixed in
place to mark a significant event. The natal nods in turn, then
presses what seems a little dot on the thumb of his left hand.
One of the panels in the wall behind him slides down.
The sun shines straight into her wide-open eyes.
She cries out and bends to escape that terrible light,
after-images flashing green and gold.
406

The natal asks, his voice steady despite her extreme

distress:
What do you see, Lady?
She answers directly:
I see green and gold flashing lights. I hear the rustle of
many movements.
The natals asks again:
What do you see, Lady?
And then she sees it. It is a form she cannot
comprehend, huge, with a given intent that surpasses her
understanding.
She opens her eyes, straightens up until she can look
into the sun again.
The natal nods with satisfaction and presses the dot on
his thumb again. The screen rises and cuts off the suns light.
He walks over to her she blinking again to clear the green
and gold flashes from her sight takes her right hand and
traces a pattern across her palm with a long yellowed nail,
asking as he does:
Is this what you saw, Lady?
She looks down at her palm, hardly seeing it because
of the residual flashing.
Yes. But like this.
She extends her arms on either side, then bends them
down at the elbows, fingers splayed. She turns her head to
one side. She explains:
This being lives before the sun.

407

The natal steps forward and embraces her, his bony

arms hard against her back. Then he steps back and bows low
before her.
You have saved us all, Lady. I do you honour.
He bows again, wrapping his hands around each other
thin bony fingers with their long nails in a tight embrace
at his breast. Then he drops dead on the floor.
She watches him slide down, only a low murmur as the
fabric of his green gown abrades against the resistance of the
flooring material. She sees that his hands remain tightly
clasped against his breast. This is significant, though she
doesnt know why.
The door slides open behind her and she hears the
surviving natal say in a low tone of finality:
Oh, Getrydi is dead.
The artificial man is saying: the principle well
enough. But, Catratsion, is it true? How can we judge?
The surviving natal comes and stands over the slumped
body of the dead natal.
The artificial woman says brightly, enjoying the
conversation: But that is just it, dont you see? We must
each evaluate what we experience. I mean, you may find one
truth in an episode and I or anyone else, for that matter
might well find another. But that does not invalidate either
truth. Dont you see that?
The artificial man responds: No, that cannot be good
enough, dear. There can be only one truth
She says, suddenly understanding and thus speaking
with a fervent intensity:
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He flies. You must understand this. He flies.

The surviving natal says immediately, as though her
speaking has stimulated him to speak also:
He said there would be a time. I never believed him.
These orients took themselves so seriously, we believed.
question of who is to know.
The surviving natal turns slowly to her, bending in
order to gain an intimacy:
What happened, artificial? Was it something you
said?
But as I understand it, Petero, each participant acts
according to his or her own lights. How could there be
anything but individual truths?
The artificial man comes to stand beside the surviving
natal and takes to staring at the dead body on the floor. Then
he sighs and says pensively:
You know, Ovaltire, and he really wasnt that old. I
mean as they go.
She says, turning with a blind instinct to the artificial
woman:
You can see him flying before the sun. She points
towards the screen that had been opened for her.
The artificial woman stares at her with something like
revulsion, then says loudly:
She gets madder each time, you know.
The surviving natal nods. But it is a demanding task,
Catratsion. She must be allowed some latitude.

409

And the artificial man says immediately: Yes, yes.

And you have to remember the memory loss she suffers each
time.
The surviving natal heaves a great sigh. Well, Velcott
always said it would come to something like this. He glances
at both his artificial colleagues. He believed that she loses
part of her soul each time, you know. But, mind you, he
never expected her to last more than ten years or so. He
ended up in admiration of her resilience. He nods now
towards her. He made me promise on his deathbed that I
would never restrict her in any way, no matter how strange
she became. And you two must remember that.
The artificial man says, very conversationally: But,
yes, you have to take into consideration the question of how
such a situation could maintain coherence. I mean, if
everyone does what they liked, why then do we not have
chaos?
And even the Machine much as we hate it could
not come into being from purely selfish motives, the
surviving natal adds, thus showing that he has been listening
to the artificials discussion.
The artificial woman is surprised by the natals
intervention. But what is the organising principle then? I
mean, what is really greater than the consciousness of the
individual?
She is suddenly overcome by agitation. She shouts:
Before the sun, do you hear? That you must
understand.
410

The artificial man glances at her just as he speaks: I

grant that. And I am sure Ovaltire here gesturing towards
the natal will do also. But yet the fact remains that selfish
individuals
trapped
within
their
own
individual
consciousnesses nonetheless can act together in harmony.
The artificial woman now becomes agitated. She steps
back and trips over the dead body on the floor, falling heavily
against a nearby chair. Both of her colleagues rush forward to
help her. The younger and more agile artificial man reaches
her first and helps steady her, just as she might topple
forward in reflex and land on the body of the dead orient
natal. The artificial woman is quick to recover, however, and
she says, absently rubbing her scalp with both hands the
residual evidence of her recent shock:
I was going to say something, but I have forgotten it!
That is so strange.
The artificial man continues to support her by the
elbow, though it is evident that the artificial woman has
regained her balance. He says, bending close to her ear:
If you trace your train of thought perhaps, Catratsion.
That can often help.
The surviving natal also hovers close by, both hands up
as he looks for a way to also help her. He says, nodding
repeatedly:
Yes, yes, yes. Thats just the thing to do. Look, let me
reprise. We are discussing the nature of the truth to be found
in the actualities. Both Petero and I hold the view that there
must be a presiding intelligence directing these shows, while
411

you argue that each participant acts freely out of his or her
own best judgement. But we
The surviving natal stops speaking abruptly when the
artificial woman suddenly reaches and grasps his right hand
and shouts:
Oh no! Not that, no, not that at all!
She is surprised by her own vehemence and glances
from the surviving natal to the artificial man with an
increasingly sheepish grin spreading across her features.
No. I just cant remember. I mean, thats whats so
strange. I had a thought, and then it just disNo, not a
thought. Oh, I saw something. I mean this, Petero, I saw
something.
She starts crying loudly, gushes of tears, face riven by
grief just like that. She wails loudly: Oh, what did I see?
What did I see?
The surviving natal is becoming agitated now
perhaps the physical contact with the artificial woman
induces this and he too begins to sob, as though an abiding
fatalism in his nature comes to the surface.
There is the slightest jarring of the floor.
It is left to the artificial man to try to bring some order
to the situation. He draws away from his colleagues, feeling
his way around the circle of chairs, saying as he does:
Oh, Catratsion, come on now. Its not such an
important subject, now is it? No one is saying that you are
entirely mistaken in your opinion. In fact, there might well be
some merit in it. After all, we are all free individuals to the
extent that we can make mistakes. Isnt that right? No one
412

will ever insist that you are entirely wrong, but you must
admit, for your part, that our argument must also be taken
into account.
The surviving natal frowns such a deep frown that the
corrugation of his brow has the effect of drawing his hair
forward in a very strange way. He releases the artificial
womans grip on his hand and turns to face the artificial man.
He speaks slowly with careful enunciation:
But that is just the point, Petero: how can blindness be
regarded as a freedom? I mean, within the usual definition.
The entrance door slides open and a small man comes
bustling in. He is wearing a grey gown, over which is tied a
long apron of some glossy black material. He also has a
mechanism strapped around his head, a number of cables
dangling from it over his shoulders and so down his back.
The artificial man stops circling the circle of chairs
fully opposite the surviving natal and the artificial woman, as
it happens. He visibly bristles, his eyes especially showing
the strength of his reaction: they narrow and seem to sink into
his head, so that they gleam like lights in caves. He speaks
with an unpleasant abruptness:
Just because we are limited as individuals does not
mean we cannot participate and perhaps in certain cases
participate fully in the ongoing activities of the presiding
intelligence. We are agents, even if we are not originals.
The small man comes up to her, smiles in a way that
indicates familiarity and reaches for her left hand. She
immediately reacts by trying to pull her hand away, but the
small man shifts his grip to her wrist which is very thin
413

and so secures an unbreakable grip upon her. He pulls her to

follow him across the chamber to the open door. She resists
this, so the small man pats her left hand to reassure her and
then draws her again to follow him. She does so this time, but
still with some resistance and tensed to make a greater
resistance should she feel the need.
It is the artificial woman who responds the more
strongly, an inarticulate cry escaping her tensed mouth, but it
is the surviving natal who replies, however.
I do not intend to implicate the artificial alone here,
Petero. Even the natal is an almost helpless pawn in this
matter.
Once he has drawn her to the open door, the small man
seeks to move more quickly. She immediately jams both feet
against the floor and utters a short No! The small man
smiles wanly this time, indicating some understanding of her
situation. He signals that she should step out into the corridor
beyond. When she baulks, he twists her wrist so that its inner
surface is uppermost. He points at the dark indicator there
and then points out into the corridor.
would indicate this most clearly by the analogy
with
She steps tentatively out into the corridor. The
indicator lights up. She reads it as a reflex:
22,486,205 black; 3.76 green.
She knows what this means, the delight springing in
her as from nowhere. She looks at the small man, all
resistance gone, and utters the blissful words:
414

I am wealthy. And then she calls out, another reflex

response: Situation?
Immediately the voice resounds along the corridor,
male in tone, curt and practical:
The Aeon Bubble. Forty six percent commit. Entering
bulge. Projected yield eight point two percent over ten days.
Secured to within point zero seven and falling.
She is very pleased to hear this. She says to the small
man alongside whom she is now walking freely:
I am wealthy. I can go back to reality.
The small man nods to reassure her, smiling but not
saying anything.
The corridor runs straight ahead, creamy white light
glowing on the brushed metallic surfaces. There are doors at
intervals along both sides. Then, as they approach, one of
these doors slides open. The small man stops at it and
indicates that she should go through.
The chamber is small, intensely quiet, a couch in the
centre, a control panel at its head.
Its not necessary for the small man to guide her
anymore. She draws the gown over her head and drops it on
the floor. She climbs onto the couch and lays out flat, arms
by her sides.
She is smiling, filled with anticipation, the growing
relief like a glow inside her.
The small man takes one of the cables dangling from
the instrument strapped to his head and after gently turning
her head to one side inserts it into the socket at the top of
her spine. He listens intently for a moment, then nods and
415

smiles more widely than before. He withdraws the cable and

she brings her head around to face him. He nods for her
benefit. Now she is the one to smile broadly. He, meanwhile,
has drawn up a thick tube from the side of the couch. He
inserts it into one of the sockets in her navel. He then draws
up a second tube and inserts that into the second socket there.
Now he speaks for the first time, a small thin voice:
Are you ready?
She nods emphatically.
He reaches under the couch and at once she feels the
rush of pleasure as the fluid begins to flow into her.
He has come around to the top of the couch and is
drawing a cable up from there. As a last gesture, he touches
her brow lightly and asks:
Are you happy?
Oh yes! She nods emphatically again. Then she turns
her head away from him and waits for that special moment.
He says:
I will count back from ten. Please listen attentively.
Now.
The cable enters the socket in her neck.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five

416

The servant is still bowing, bobbing his head up and

down.
But, Excellency, he did say that he would be along
directly. He said, as best I can remember, Tell His
Excellency to carry on with the festivities. I will join him once
I have completed my devotions. That is what he said to me,
Excellency.
Both the Grand Duke and the Prince are sharing the
same smirk, part the easy cynicism of those willing to be
cynical in certain circumstances, but part also the uneasy
distaste of those who do not wish to experience revulsion of
any kind.
Both Sofya Vasilevna and Vladimir Mitrofanovich are
disturbed by the sudden change of tone in the room. The
latter is especially exercised by the negative elements both
the cheap cynicism and the more genuine aversion but he
waits until the servant has retreated to his quarters before
raising his hands, left hand to the Prince by his side and right
hand to the Grand Duke just across the chamber from him. It
is a priestly gesture, as though Vladimir Mitrofanovich might
pronounce a blessing to forestall worse behaviour.
Sofya Vasilevna, for her part, experiences a shock that
presents itself as a shock of recognition, though she knows
herself well enough to realise that what in fact is happening is
a trick of memory. She says, speaking suddenly when she had
not the remotest intention of passing any remark on the
behaviour of the aristocrats:

417

It is curious how embarrassing we find the private

religious practices of others. As though there is something
unseemly in the purely personal.
She knows at once that the tone is wrong too didactic
and this is indicated as quickly by Feliks Feliksovich, who
raises his eyes to meet hers just a tad too sharply, but who
says as though in compensation, though in fact not so:
It is always the problem with gesture, Madame. When
it presents itself as other than a convention, that is.
Oh now, my dear Feliks Feliksovich, the Grand Duke
says softly, speaking also all of a sudden. He covers his
uncharacteristic loss of mode by redirecting his attention to
the burnt-out cigar he holds between the fingers of his right
hand. Not a satisfactory object of study: cold, stumpy, with a
whiff of stale tobacco about it. Dmitri Pavlovich heaves a
great sigh, so profound a deflation that Sofya Vasilevna on
the other side of the little table can hear how the stiff fabric of
his jacket abrades across the smoother fabric of his waistcoat.
And he is aware of her sudden attention to him to his
clothing, that is for he raises his eyes slowly to catch hers.
And when he has achieved contact, he smiles a doleful smile
for her and says in an openly conciliatory tone:
It is as ever, dear lady, not the question of truth, but of
what is admissible. Yes? If a man claims to be god, do we
laugh it off, bow down or shoot him?
His smile expands until it becomes a grin. Sofya
Vasilevna knows there is a challenge here, but she is taken by
the condition of the Grand Dukes teeth. They are seriously
discoloured by years of cigar smoking, coffee drinking, rich
418

buttery foods, the gums raddled by all manner of disease. But

some attempt has been made to clean those teeth most easily
seen, so that the front teeth exhibit panels of lighter surface
against the general gloom of his mouth.
And Sofya Vasilevna thinks: Dmitri Pavlovich is
exhibiting intimacy, even friendship. Unfortunately, she has
no reply for the Grand Duke, but this fact never comes to
light Feliks Feliksovich has his own quick reply:
Ah yes, my dear Dmitri Pavlovich, your old riddle, as
I remember. To wit, how do we judge such a claim?
Both the Prince and the Grand Duke of course find this
very amusing, with the latter adding to increase the general
humour:
Perhaps a walk on water?
But this sort of humour passes poor Vladimir
Mitrofanovich by, though not without him first registering its
serious undertone. He drops his hands into his lap as a
gesture of resignation saying as lightly as he can possibly
manage:
Would you not be jealous of such a man, your
Excellencies? Perhaps spoken too lightly, for Feliks
Feliksovich turns abruptly at his side to glance at him, so that
Vladimir Mitrofanovich must be equally quick to dissimulate:
I would, for if one man can be god, then all men will want to
be god.
The Grand Duke, for his part, glances again at Sofya
Vasilevna, a more benign expression on his face now, and
she can see that his hand that customarily holds his cigar,
and has all the stains associated with such a function has
419

been unfolded palm upward on the little table between them.

It would be ungracious of her not to respond to this
invitation. She lays her left palm down against the palm of
his right hand.
Dmitri Pavlovich smiles broadly, something like relief
and perhaps an intense gratification lighting up his face.
And, dear lady, if a man can be a god, then that man is
a god. Is that not so?
And as though fulfilling his part is this rather coy
game, the Prince says, beaming now on the flushed Sofya
Vasilevna:
As the ancients understood it in the case of Dionysos,
yes?
Oh no! This is Vladimir Mitrofanovich, genuine
alarm written in all his features, straining forward towards the
Grand Duke. I beg you, your Excellency, do not for an
instant make that assumption. We are dealing with a fiction
here, just a myth. This is how the ancients communicated the
higher truths to each other, by means of fable and myth.
Then pray, our good Russian philosopher, intrudes
Feliks Feliksovich, he leaning forward too towards the
agitated young man at his side, his tone within an ace of the
sarcastic. What higher truth, as you call it, are we to
understand from the tale of the poor Arianna?
The unfortunate Vladimir Mitrofanovich is too heated
at the moment to notice the Princes negative intervention,
but Sofya Vasilevna, at least, is in a position to insert some
kind of palliative:
420

But, she interjects and then pauses to look around the

compartment, thereby including everyone present in her
audience: Whatever truth can be gleaned from Ariannas
condition will surely be tangential to our modern
assumptions. Wont you agree?
She hears a quick sigh, and feels pressure on the hand
that lies in the grasp of the Grand Duke she having
forgotten she was thus held and Dmitri Pavlovich says,
looking over to his good friend, the Prince,
That is certainly a point that should be included here.
And Sofya Vasilevna decides to capitalise on the
situation by venturing another question, one she feels she
only now recognises has always fascinated her:
What, for instance, are we to make of the Minotaur
himself? What truth hides there?
She is surprised most of all by the response of
Vladimir Mitrofanovich, who startled all over again rears
up his head to stare hotly at her:
Himself? Do you imply that the beast is somehow to
be regarded as human?
This time it is Dmitri Pavlovich who acts to defuse the
situation by inserting an element of good humour into their
conversation:
Well, my dear Vladimir Mitrofanovich, a woman was
involved in his creation, after all.
But on this point Vladimir Mitrofanovich remains
adamant:
No, your Excellency, I cannot allow this line of
reasoning, though it goes against all good sense for me to
421

insist thusly. The Minotaur stands for our lower nature, which
must be expunged in order that the higher spirit within us can
rise to its proper station.
It is Feliks Feliksovich who responds now who, after
all, had asked for this information in the first place he
drawing back from the by now thoroughly upset young man:
Expunged, my dear Vladimir Mitrofanovich? Such an
emphasis you place on that word. Are we to reach for the
ostlers knife? Is that what you advise, holy Russian
philosopher?
Ah no, Sofya Vasilevna murmurs involuntarily,
feeling some obligation for having broached this particularly
tender subject. Perhaps this is too cruel?
Here Feliks Feliksovich laughs the short bitter laugh of
the melodramatist a remarkably excessive gesture it seems
to everyone else and fixes his now hot eyes on Sofya
Vasilevna:
Then it is a cruel subject, dear lady. If this higher man
cannot rise out of to quote our educated friend here beside
me man as we find here on earth incarnated, then where
will he spring from?
It looks for a moment as though a real and genuine spat
might erupt between the two gentlemen on the couch. They
are staring at each other with fevered eyes, each with his
hands pressed down onto his respective thighs, each
consumed by the same wonderful fury. But then the Grand
Duke releases his hand from that of his companion on that
side of the compartment and by reflex takes up the dead
cigar that has rested on the edge of the ashtray at his elbow.
422

He studies the cigar closely rolling it between his fingers

even then observes even as he studies the burnt-out cigar:
But, my dear Feliks Feliksovich, that is what we are
told happens in the myth, is it not? The Minotaur, the
devourer of virgins, is cut down once and for all by the great
Teseo. Now he raises his eyes to gaze with his familiar
benignity from the Prince to the young philosopher, smiling
his vague smile: And remember also what gift the higher
man in this case the man-made-god Dionysos grants out
of his supreme power.
Both Feliks Feliksovich and Vladimir Mitrofanovich
relent at once, part indeed out of an instinctive graciousness
that would oblige the Grand Duke in almost every instance,
but also because they both recognise that you cannot argue
with a myth as you might with a philosophy.
Well then, and everyone settling down again the
Grand Duke still preoccupied with his wasted cigar, the two
men on the couch sitting side by side in exactly the same
posture (hands now only resting upon respective thighs), even
Sofya Vasilevna herself seemingly taken up by a momentary
reflection and the curtain on the right lifts and in hurls the
little old servant, face alight, crying in his weak old voice:
Excellency, oh Excellency, he is coming now. The
holy starets is coming!
The shrill voice pierces the thick atmosphere in the
compartment, yet no one seems to notice. The servant
consumed by his agitation runs across the narrow
compartment to the door there, then runs back, ringing his
hands in an earnest and even wholesome display of acute
423

anxiety, where he bows low before Dmitri Pavlovich and

pleads:
But your Excellency, here is a saint coming to sit
among you gentlemen!
At this point Sofya Vasilevna leaps to her feet, face
suddenly animated as she breaks out of her daydream. She
raises her hands, palms out and says in a hushed voice:
Please remember the limitations of our modern
understanding. We must watch at all times for error.
All the men have their eyes at once riveted on her
bosom, each expertly weighing the actual proportions of her
discreetly compressed breasts. All the men sigh in response
to their respective findings except, that is, the Grand Duke,
who cannot see her embonpoint quite so clearly from his
position to one side of her. Instead, he says, glancing from
the animated woman to the animated servant,
But you wouldnt want to exaggerate matters either,
would you?
The servant is throwing repeated glances towards the
velvet drape to his right, obviously fearful the great saint will
appear amongst them before the appropriate reception has
been prepared, saying in a naked attempt to impress the
gathered nobles:
But, masters, he is a holy man. He has cured many of
the people of their illnesses. They even say that he has raised
the dead back to life!
This last assertion is intended to clinch the argument,
for the servant announces it in his shrillest voice so far.
424

The most notable response is Vladimir Mitrofanovichs

wince the servant is standing closest to him. But Feliks
Feliksovich seems also affected by the uncomfortable sound,
for he stands up and raises his hand to quieten the servant,
saying in his most facetious tone in order perhaps to restore
some of the bonhomie to the little group:
And, pray, faithful Alyoshka, when was the last time
that the dead were asked if they wanted to be resurrected?
It is a witty sally that Dmitri Pavlovich is quick to
acknowledge, emitting a loud chuckle that sets his whole
torso atremble, so much so in fact that it in turn sets off a fit
of coughing. If he was about to venture a sally himself as
seems to be the case the coughing renders that impossible,
at least for the moment. In any case, it is the servant who
answers, standing up forthrightly to his social superior and
speaking out without any obvious fear for the consequences:
Ah, your Excellency, but it is known to all that no
man wishes to die, if that was possible.
For once Feliks Feliksovich can do nothing but stare at
the audacious servant, partly mortified that such a lowly
being could correct him before company in this way, and
partly the inescapable recognition of what a jackass he can be
at times. So it is left to his friend, the Grand Duke, to reply
his breath back under his control which he does in the
smooth tone he had learned as a child in his dealings with the
contrary:
Ah, you numbskull, what good does it do you to fall
for the nonsense of a charlatan?
425

The servant, of course, quails immediately, mostly

because he understands that he has offended his beloved
master. But he manages to stammer, even so:
But, Excellency, I have seen him heal others. Seen it
with my own eyes I have, I swear before the Mother of God.
Now it is the turn of Vladimir Mitrofanovich still
seated and looking extremely calm, given the circumstances
who says, looking at the servant but obviously addressing the
Grand Duke:
Certainly, such a charism is not unknown, surely. And
it would be as well to grant the benefit of doubt in this case.
It is an unfortunate intervention, for the servant is as
though galvanised by this unexpected support from one of his
Excellencies, so that he blurts out, the words obviously
already primed within and ready for expression:
Oh, they say he is the new Christ. They say that God
has incarnated in him!
This, of course, is too much for the spiritually-inclined
Vladimir Mitrofanovich, who now jumps to his feet in his
agitation and shouts out recklessly:
Dont you dare utter such a vulgar superstition in this
company! Remember who you are and where you are.
By now with three of the four occupants afoot the
little compartment is becoming crowded. The light,
moreover, is much dimmer, huge erratic shadows looming on
all the walls. Yet the Grand Duke remains at ease, still toying
with the dead cigar, the acrid odour of burnt tobacco evoking
a succession of vague memories especially related to
426

experiences of late-night ennui. He says, comforted by these

memories:
My dear Alyoshka, how many times have I told you to
guard your tongue when there is company?
The servant is startled. He turns to look at the Grand
Duke:
But, Excellency, that is what people say.
Dmitri Pavlovich waves his free hand at his servant:
Oh yes, but you do not have to repeat it with such
enthusiasm.
The servant has clamped his lips together, his thin face
gone white, even tears sparkling in his eyes. Dmitri Pavlovich
says quickly:
Oh there there, Alyoshka, dont let it upset you so. Go
in now and wash your face. Then you can bring us some
refreshments. He turns his attention to the rest of the
company: Perhaps we should all resume our seats. Grigory
Efimovich may be a holy man, but he is hardly worth all this
excitement, is he?
No sooner are they seated than the servant looking
extremely refreshed reappears with a large tray bearing
glasses and a bottle. He lays it on the little table between the
Grand Duke and Sofya Vasilevna. A quick count of the
glasses and Dmitri Pavlovich asks, a questing look at the
servant:
Five glasses? And who The curtain to his left is
lifted, the entrance darkening, a tall figure appearing there,
bald head, heavy peasant beard, intense gleaming eyes. Ah,
427

resumes the Grand Duke, it is Grigory Efimovich, come at

last.
The monk presents himself in the proper way to the
Grand Duke, bowing a stiff shallow salute, Your willing
servant, your Excellency. Then he turns to the Prince seated
at his back and bows stiffly again, And your humble servant,
your Highness. Then there is a nod for Vladimir
Mitrofanovich who responds in much the same manner
and then Grigory Efimovich can finally concentrate on the
only lady present. He bows more deeply for her, his thick lips
pursing redly amidst the abundant hair.
Ah, my dear Lady, I have so looked forward to
meeting you. Your intellectual fame extends further than you
probably realise.
The servant is meanwhile pouring vodka, filling each
of the five glasses to the brim, as is the custom. It is a tricky
operation under the circumstances in the crowded
compartment, what with the holy monk making a ceremony
of his entrance.
Sofya Vasilevna manages a tight smile, distrusting
immediately the word intellectual as it oozes from the heavy
monks mouth, so it is Dmitri Pavlovich who offers a reply to
his compliment,
Ah, my dear Grigory Efimovich, but you should
perhaps grace the lady as it more suits your wont?
The monk draws back at hearing this. The servant has
begun to distribute the glasses of vodka. First glass should go
to the only woman present, but the monk has succeeded in
taking control of all access to her. So the first glass goes to
428

his master, the Grand Duke, who nods civilly in accepting it.
He immediately places it on the table at Sofya Vasilevnas
elbow, saying in his best mock-cavalier tone:
Your ration, my dear.
The servant has continued the distribution: a glass for
the Prince, then a glass for Vladimir Mitrofanovich seated at
his side. Back to the tray on the little table, then, to discover
only one glass remaining. Dmitri Pavlovich spares the old
man confusion by raising the glass he had himself taken,
saying loudly with a faintly sardonic edge:
Perhaps, Grigory Efimovich, you might be seated, so
my servant might serve you also.
There is a crux here, of course. The monk takes the
trouble to look around the compartment. Feliks Feliksovich
and Vladimir Mitrofanovich are seated side by side towards
the centre of the settee, both with eyes down, apparently
studying the clear liquid in their glasses. Dmitri Pavlovich
offers a suggestion:
Perhaps on the settee alongside those gentlemen.
There is a general clenching of jaws. No one moves.
Then Sofya Vasilevna says looking at Grigory Efimovichs
broad back, tightly mantled in a typical black podryasnik:
We have resorted to this seating arrangement for your
benefit, monk.
Grigory Efimovich starts at the sound of her voice. He
turns slowly like a cornered dog and says, bending so that
his intense eyes come close to hers:
All will die when I die, Lady.
429

It is Feliks Feliksovich who replies, his tone light and

bantering:
And all live while you live. Is that it, holy man?
Grigory Efimovich will turn again to face his new
tormentor, but the Grand Duke raises his hand the one
holding the dead cigar just a fraction and makes as though
to clear his throat, saying:
You make yourself fair game for this cruelty, Grigory
Efimovich. Now please sit there by the good Vladimir
Mitrofanovich, who Im sure will accommodate you.
It is the obvious choice in terms of seniority, for
instance but yet no two in the little group are less willing to
accommodate each other. So Grigory Efimovich must content
himself with a corner of the settee, perched no doubt on one
buttock while wedging his shoulder against the party wall at
his side.
Now the servant can complete his task of distributing
the glasses of vodka.
Dmitri Pavlovich transfers his cigar to his left hand and
takes up his glass in the now freed right. He smiles his more
measured smile, glancing around at each member of the
group, then raises his glass and says:
So a final toast, now that we are all together at last. To
Arianna, our inspiration.
The vodka is drunk in one mouthful, as is the custom.
The servant collects the glasses, lays them in order around the
bottle on his tray, departs in silence. They all breathe a sigh
as the alcohol infuses them. Then Sofya Vasilevna stands up,
her eyes suddenly vivid with intoxication, her mouth
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uncharacteristically slack. The men go to rise but she signals

them to remain seated. She breaths deeply, the men watching
her face expectantly this time. She says, convulsed by a very
strange feeling indeed, as though some other being lurks
within her. She says, looking directly down into the black
eyes of Grigory Efimovich:
God in man is a beast.
Grigory Efimovich flares with intense hatred. He
jumps to his feet, stepping towards Sofya Vasilevna so that
he looms over her.
And the beast devours the woman? This from Dmitri
Pavlovich in his mildest tone, as though the earlier
conversation is being resumed.
Grigory Efimovich takes these remarks badly. He
glances at the Grand Duke then lets his eyes run down Sofya
Vasilevnas body to her bosom, saying spitefully: And you
believe that your science can protect you?
Feliks Feliksovich now rises to his feet, speaking in the
deliberate tone he uses in such situations: And you no doubt
believe your god will protect you, peasant. He reaches inside
his jacket and produces a heavy military revolver. Grigory
Efimovich catches the movement from the corner of his eye
and swings about and makes a grab at the gun. Still seated,
Vladimir Mitrofanovich draws a pistol from his jacket
pocket, aims it up towards the back of the monks head and
fires.
Sofya Vasilevna edges around the staggering Grigory
Efimovich and steps through to the other compartment. The
light is intense here after the shadowy gloom, but she catches
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sight of her reflection immediately, seeing it then reflected an

infinite number of times, receding in both directions in the
facing mirrors. The apparently instantaneous recession stuns
her and induces a swoon. She can register a thought
nonetheless, a reflex insight that comes to her like a
reminder:
Do I dare understand?
The Grand Duke enters the compartment just in time to
steady her.
Perhaps you should sit down, dear Sofya Vasilevna?
He helps her to a chair, then seats himself across the
compartment from her, composing his clothes about himself
in a habitual way.
You are a very brave woman, Sofya Vasilevna. He
bows his head towards her. Courage in a woman is the
greatest virtue.
Dmitri Pavlovich draws a cigar case from an inner
pocket and extracts a fat cigar. He lights it with one of the
lucifers from the box on the little table at his side. Drawing
deeply on the lit cigar, he exhales a long slow plume of
smoke.
Now Feliks Feliksovich enters the compartment,
preoccupied with straightening his clothes. He says in his
more usual cheerful tone:
Ah, my dear friend, I see you are settled in already.
Dmitri Pavlovich nods agreeably, his whole body
rocking back and forth in sympathy.
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Vladimir Mitrofanovich now enters the compartment.

He is unusually flushed, his clothes somewhat awry, his
features set, even a little grim. He nods once and then takes
his seat at the little table, across from their female
companion.
Feliks Feliksovich returns the younger mans nod. He
too takes his seat, across the table from the Grand Duke. He
wiggles once or twice to settle himself into his seat, then
announces:
Well, now that we are all here, I thought I might relate
my adventures in Siberia some years ago. I know I have told
the story before, but I believe it will serve as a agreeable
diversion while we wait for dinner. What do you say to that?

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