Antagonist - Childe Cycle 11 (68 page)

had
heard,
or
thought,
or
seen—somewhere
before
...
he
could
not pin
it
down.

On
the
other
hand,
if
Hal
Mayne
convinced
enough
people
not to
go
in
the
direction
Bleys
knew
was
needed
to
save
the
human race,
the
forces
might
tend
to
the
other
direction.

It
saddened
Bleys
to
think
that
the
entire
future
of
the
race
depended
on
unknowing
decisions
made
by
the
totally
ignorant,
but he
could
not
tell
them—not
yet—that
the
very
future
of
humankind
was
at
stake
in
this
conflict.
They
would
not
believe
it. They
would
find
it
unlikely,
ludicrous—too
far
from
their
own
personal
lives
to
be
accorded
either
credibility
or
interest.

It
was
yet
another
sad
fact
about
the
human
race,
he
thought: most
did
not
think
ahead
far
enough
to
imagine
a
future
beyond
the lives
of
their
grandchildren—more
accurately:
to
care
about
such
a future
time.

It
had
taken
him
years
to
learn
that
fact
about
his
fellow
humans. When
he
was
much
younger
he
had
occasionally
tried
to
bring
conversations
around
to
considerations
of
the
far
future
and
the
destiny of
the
race;
but
most
of
those
around
him
seemed
to
lack
interest
in such
concepts.

Eventually,
he
had
theorized
that
those
reactions
resulted
from
a strange
kind
of
fear—that
most
people
were
very
uncomfortable dealing
with
the
concept
of
a
world
in
which
they,
or
something they
had
created,
no
longer
existed.

Bleys
was
utterly
sure
Hal
Mayne
thought
that
far
ahead.
Bleys did
not
know
why
he
knew
that,
but
he
knew
it.
Which
meant
that Hal
Mayne
must
feel
something
like
the
same
sadness,
the
same loneliness,
of
being
almost
the
only
one
he
knew
who
saw
what
he saw.

In
an
attenuated
way,
that
was
what
had
made
Bleys
so
sad,
on
that day
when
he
first
met
Hal
Mayne,
in
his
prison
cell,
and
offered
him friendship.
At
the
time
Bleys
himself
had
not
really
fully
understood how
deeply
similar
their
situations
were
...
perhaps
Hal
Mayne,
too, had
not
really
understood
he
was
being
offered
the
gift
of
an
understanding
friend.

Will
he
come
to
see
it,
someday?
When
will
it
be
too
late
for
even
that
understanding
to
change
things
between
us?

Toni
had
made
him
articulate
it:
Bleys
could
never
give
up
his mission,
even
if
it
cost
him
everything
else
he
wanted
out
of
life. He
wondered
if
Hal
Mayne
felt
the
same
way
...
but
how
could
he, when
his
side
of
the
struggle
was
so
clearly
wrong?

No
one
else
understood
the
race's
peril
as
Bleys
did.
Not
even Hal
Mayne.

He
reached
for
a
piece
of
the
fine
paper
kept
in
a
small
box
on his
desk.
It
was
expensive
paper,
a
linen
blend
that
felt
good
under his
fingers
when
he
chose,
as
he
did
now,
to
write
to
himself.
He could,
and
often
did,
use
any
available
paper
for
such
writings— when
the
urge
was
on
him
the
writing
was
all
that
mattered.
Still, there
was
a
pleasure
of
creation
that
came
with
using
an
antique-style
pen
to
put
his
words
on
the
finest
of
papers
...
it
was
a
kind of
art,
he
felt.

He
had
thought
idly,
now
and
then,
of
studying
calligraphy;
but he
had
never
done
so.
Art
was
not
the
point
of
his
writings.

I
never really knew how lonely
I
was, until
I
started to imagine what Hal Mayne must feel,
he wrote.
He's been taken in by the Final Encyclopedia;
I
wonder if he's lonely there?

He
paused,
looking
at
the
words.
He
had
no
real
need
to
write such
notes;
and
in
a
way
it
made
little
sense
to
do
so;
the
words,
although
encoded
as
he
wrote,
were
never
seen
by
anyone
else,
but
destroyed
as
soon
as
he
had
finished
writing.

He
smiled,
almost
shyly;
and
skipped
down
the
page
a
little,
to write
again:

Do
I
use these
notes as a substitute for having a friend?

He
looked
at
the
words
for
a
moment,
the
smile
fading;
and
then fed
the
sheet
into
the
slot
in
his
desk
that,
using
a
variation
of
the phase-field
technology
that
was
the
basis
of
both
interstellar
travel and
the
panels
that
shielded
the
Final
Encyclopedia,
disintegrated the
sheet
totally,
spreading
its
component
subatomic
parts
evenly throughout
the
universe
and
placing
it
forever
beyond
recovery.
He pulled
out
another
sheet
of
paper,
and
wrote.

In
my
youthful,
failed
attempts
to
find
God,
I
read
all
the
holy
books. In
some
there's
a
story
that
tells
how
Jesus,
before
his
crucifixion, asked
if
the
burden
God
had
given
him
could
be
taken
away.
But
it could
not
be.
Not
if
Jesus
was
to
do
his
job.

I
have
the
burden
of
knowing
the
danger
the
human
race
is
in, and
of
being
the
only
one
who
can
see
that
danger,
and
a
way
out
of it.
.
.
and
because
I'm
the
only
one
who
can
see
it,
I
can't
shift
my burden
to
someone
else.

If
I
truly
believed
in
God,
perhaps
I
could
forget
the
danger,
and just
leave
it
to
Him
to
take
care
of
His
children.
But
I
was
never
able to
develop
the
faith
such
an
abdication
would
require.
So
I
have
no one
to
pass
the
cup
to.

It's
up
to
me.
Even
though
/
might
not
be
up
to
it.

Me.
Alone.

He
sat
back,
looking
down
at
the
paper
but
not
really
seeing
it.

He
must
lead,
then,
even
from
his
position
of
weakness.
He
must lead,
because
no
one
else
saw
the
danger.

He
would
have
to
do
it
through
lies,
because
few
would
believe the
truth.
Dahno
did
not;
and
even
Toni—the
only
other
person
to whom
he
had
explained
his
vision—even
she
had
only
accepted what
he
said,
as
if
tucking
it
away
to
think
about
later.

He
was
committed
to
a
course
of
trying
to
break
down
what
was needed,
into
a
series
of
steps;
and
then
to
finding
a
way
to
make each
step
so
attractive
a
lot
of
people
would
want
to
take
it.

His
future
would
be
long
and
arduous,
as
he
tried
to
lead
his blind
species
along
those
steps.

Would
he
ever
be
in
a
position
to
explain
the
end?

Somehow,
he
would
have
to
find
that
position;
because
he
could not
live
long
enough
to
carry
the
race
through
to
its
maturation.

One
step
at
a
time,
he
told
himself.

He
fed
the
second
sheet
into
the
disposal
slot,
and
then
keyed the
internal
comm
circuit
for
Toni;
and
asked
her
to
find
Amyth Barbage,
and
have
him
come.