Georgia on My Mind and Other Places (40 page)

“Then he is indeed a rarity. I spared his life, that is all. On an impulse. One man, among many. I do not know how many.” Puladi realized that he truly did not. The purges and the culling had gone on for so long, day after day and year after year. “Would you believe millions? Maybe ten million?”

He was talking of matters about which he never talked; but the other did not seem shocked.

“No, I would not believe it.” The brown eyes met Puladi’s own, in a way that no man’s had ever done. “I might believe fifty million. When you give an order to the guards, Kelb and Mavermine and Jaworsky compete in their zeal to make sure that it is carried out thoroughly. But you spared Belur, he said, when Kelb would cheerfully have destroyed him. And he said that you had every reason to have him killed. The Chronoclast was not working as he had promised. He knows the problem now.”

Puladi felt a quiver of hope, and dismissed it at once as quite irrational. If Rustum Belur had found a way to access the future, the news would have come to him that same day. “What was wrong with the Chronoclast?”

“Nothing, in terms of its function. But he told you of a slight uncertainty in the transport time, which might give an hour or two of error over a couple of years. He did not know it at the time, but that error grows for longer intervals—what is the word for it—quadratically?”

“That sounds right.”

“So the final error can be large.”

“And to use the Chronoclast to
return
something or someone to the past—”

“—is quite impossible. Just as you said.”

“You are disappointed.”

“Yes.”

“Do not be.” Puladi’s voice was gentle. “You see, even if it had been possible, I could never let you go. You are my lifeline.”

“I know. But I thought, if you were dead . . .” He turned his head away, and closed his eyes.

Puladi turned away also, to stare at the bank of displays.
If I were dead, you would soon be dead, too. I may be your tormentor, but I am also your protector. Kelb dare not touch you, or anyone, as long as I am alive.

And after that?

It was something he seldom considered, but maybe it was time to think about it. He recalled one of their late night exchanges:

“I was hoping for a miracle cure.”

“And if you had found it, what then? No one lives forever.”

“No. But maybe thirty years more, instead of a few months . . .”

“One month, or thirty years. There is no difference. It is
how
you live, not
how long
you live, that matters.”

Words of wisdom. From a child.

And now, again, tonight. One dead, or fifty million. It is not
how many
you kill, but
that
you kill.

And he had done it all to preserve—what?

The screens in front of Puladi were restlessly active. All the displays were under his control. When he did not give direct instructions they would operate from preexisting programs, scanning for high-activity areas and recording anything that the algorithms considered significant. They were designed to report every doubtful case, leaving it to Puladi himself to evaluate later the need for action. More often than not he rejected their suggestions as unnecessary.

Would Kelb, or Mavermine, or Jaworsky, operate with as much restraint when he was gone? They did not understand the natural dynamics of human activities. If his successor took every report at face value, the world would turn into a sea of blood. And they would not even know how to destroy the system. He had protected against that very danger, so that he alone could disable it.

Puladi was roused by a whimper from the bed next to him. His companion had fallen asleep. He was dreaming. His dark head shook from side to side, and he was mouthing, “No, no, no.”

Puladi gathered the long IV tube in one hand and reached across. He took warm brown fingers in his and pressed them gently. The contact sent an electric surge through his whole body.

“Wake up. Everything’s all right. Come on, wake up, you are having a nightmare, that’s all.”

It took a few seconds until the brown eyes opened, and Puladi heard a quivering sigh.

“Oh. I am here.”

“You are here. You are safe.”

“I was dreaming. It was happening again. I was afraid.”

“There is no need for fear. Tell me about it. If you can.”

“It was the dream again, the one that I hoped was over forever.” He sat up, rubbing at his throat. “It came first when I was twelve years old. I was walking along a little valley between two hills, by the side of a river, through cedars and poplars and ash trees. The stream branched into two parts. The left side went past a little house, and a farmyard, and growing crops. A family was working in the fields, a man and a wife and five sons. And I knew I was that man, bent down with age and toil.

“But the right branch of the stream rose up toward the hills. I saw a crowd of people on the hillside, calling to me. They shouted that I was their champion, that I would rule the whole world, that I was so strong I could defeat Death itself. I started their way, and they began throwing flowers on the ground, and cheering, and laughing. But when I drew close to them, the stream turned from water to blood. The sun vanished from the sky. Pain came from nowhere, all through my body. I fell to the ground; and I saw grinning Death, standing over me.

“That was the dream. For a full year it tortured me, over and over. Until finally, one night, I made a great effort. In my dream I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears. I did not see the flowers or hear the cheers. I managed to turn around, and struggled back to where the stream divided. I went the other way, up the left-hand branch to the quiet little farm. I stayed there. I became the old man, happy with his wife and his children.

“And I woke. I never had that dream again. Until tonight. Then it came—but this time
you
were standing at the division in the stream, telling me that I must not take the peaceful branch. I must follow the other path, through pain and darkness, to fight Death himself.”

Puladi was still holding that slender brown hand. He patted it reassuringly. “Dreams are dreams, nothing more. I’d hate to tell you my own nightmares. You are safe here. There is no reason at all to be afraid.”

“But you are here. And you are afraid.”

“To die? Everyone is afraid to die.”

“I do not mean that. You are afraid of the world.”

“Never.” But Puladi found the clear brown eyes boring into his. “Never. Why do you say such a thing?”

“I talked with Rustum Belur. He could not understand why you spared his life, when it was so easy for you to allow Kelb to take him away and have him killed.”

“Maybe I have killed enough.”

“True. And why? Because if they were alive, you would fear what they might do. You did not kill Rustum Belur, only because you had no reason to fear him. He could do nothing to harm you.”

“Nonsense!” But Puladi could not meet those eyes any longer. He stared up at the displays. His free hand, without any thought on his part, began to tap at the keypad in the armrest of his wheeled chair. The screens came to life again.

This time it was not hidden meeting places, or furtive clusters of people on street corners, or two heads together in a dimly lit bar or quiet coffeehouse. This time Puladi had unconsciously sent his sensors high and far, seeking out the beautiful and the spectacular.

The screens filled, one by one: a sunlit South American waterfall, Cherun-Meru, dropping three thousand feet amid a mist of droplets and rainbow light; a towering thunderhead, black over the Java Sea, with lightning flickering through its turbulent base. Glittering Antarctic icebergs, calving away from the Ross Ice Shelf; whales, by the score and by the hundred, sounding and surfacing on their Pacific journey from pole to pole; dunes, hundreds of feet high, singing and murmuring their
mingsha
song to the Taklamakan Desert as the sands cooled and shifted with the setting sun; termite mounds, dotting an arid African plain like an army of ten-foot soldiers frozen in place and cased in brown cement; the taiga of the north, stunted junipers and pines, with the midnight sun hovering on the horizon.

While those scenes flashed into place, a quiet voice at Puladi’s side spoke to him, or maybe to itself. “But since there is still fear, even here, even for someone who controls the whole world, then there can be fear anywhere. You are right, Puladi. It is wrong that I was so afraid. I must go back. I must take the road through pain and darkness. I must fight Death itself. And maybe I will triumph.”

Puladi had needed the displays to calm his own thoughts. Now as he watched and listened, an idea flashed through his brain like jagged lightning.

“No. If I am afraid, it is not for me alone. It is for this. Think what may come after me. The jackals are already gathered, waiting for my death.” Puladi gestured at the wall displays. “Look at Earth, so various, so beautiful. When I am gone, what will happen to it? I have organized the world and forced it to peace. At my death it will fall to chaos.”

“Is chaos different from freedom? I think not. I must go back.”

The impossibility of that statement no longer mattered to Puladi. He writhed in his padded chair. “No. I need you.
Earth
needs you. Never before have I found anyone that I would trust as my successor. You are not like Kelb and the others, here for what they hope to gain. You would be a force for good. Stay, become my adopted son—and rule the world, as your dream foretold. It will all be yours.”

This time it was the thin brown hand that reached out, and gripped Puladi’s.

“You tempt me, but it is not to be. I must go back.”

“Back in time? You
cannot
.” Puladi said what he no longer believed. “It is physically impossible. Rustum Belur told you so.”

“Perhaps. But speak the truth, Puladi.
You
do not think that it is impossible. You think that I can do it.”

“No. I do not think you can do it.” The touch of the thin hand had turned Puladi’s insides to bubbling lava, and suddenly he was filled with an overwhelming knowledge. “I do not
think
you can go back, I
know
you can.” He gripped hard, fingers quivering. “But if you must go, heal me first. Please, before you leave.”

There was a creak from the bed, and the clear brown eyes were inches from Puladi’s face. Hands gripped both of his.

“That is not necessary. You are already healed. All that remains is the fear. Before the night has ended, that too will disappear.”

“Do not leave me. Please.”

“I must. But we will meet again . . . if you choose. That I promise.” He was standing up, moving away. “It is farewell, Puladi, but it need not be goodbye.”

* * *

The alarm sounded, and Salino came awake in one great spasm of nerves.

Puladi’s monitors! One hour ago they had all shown normal life signs. Now they were jumping all over the screens, out of control, values beyond any range that he had ever seen before. No man could live long with those vital functions.

He scurried across the long space between the inner and outer chambers at a speed dangerously close to triggering the automatic protection system.

The chamber door was open! He ran inside.

Puladi was sitting in his wheeled chair. The IV hung uselessly from his arm. He lolled back like a soft dummy. But he was busy. He was engaged on some intricate manipulation of the keypads in his chair. While Salino watched, a bank of directories appeared, then flickered away one by one in a strange nested chain reaction.

“Puladi—what happened to you? What are you doing?” Salino stared around the room. “Where is he?”

“One question at a time.” Puladi’s dry voice was the faintest whisper. His face was gray and rigid, only the eyes holding life. “Answer number one: I am dying. Number two: I am dismantling the world control system. Number three: he has gone, back where he came from. And I advise you to go somewhere, too, Dr. Salino, while there is still time. I estimate that you have maybe one half hour, before Kelb and friends arrive here.”

“I have done nothing to harm them.”

Puladi keyed in a new sequence. Five more screens flickered and died. “You are close to me; that is enough. They will certainly kill you.”

“You are my patient. I cannot leave.”

“I am your patient no longer. I rely on other hands than yours. Go, doctor. I command it.”

Salino hesitated, nodded, turned, and ran for the door. On its threshold he spun around and came back to the chair.

“Puladi, let me take you with me! I can hide you. I can save you from them.”

The chin in the gray mask was setting to its final rigid position. Puladi’s words could barely be understood.

“You are a good man, Salino. But it is not necessary to save me. I am saved. Go now, and save yourself.”

The final screens were blinking out as Salino ran. One by one they showed a brief scatter-plot of color, then turned to uniform gray. One picture popped back into existence for a few seconds, a calm wilderness of primeval forest. It revealed no evidence of human activity, no sign even of human existence.

Then it too streaked and flickered on the screen. A moment later it was gone. The overhead lights faded. Only the murmur of a laboring life-support system disturbed the room’s silence.

Puladi waited. It was dark, he was alone, and his face was too set to show any expression. No one would ever know that he wanted to smile.

Afterword to “The Fifteenth Station of the Cross”

On April 5th, 1992, I was spending a Sunday afternoon as I love to, loafing and reading and talking. I picked up a Harlan Ellison collection,
Deathbird Stories
, and read a story in it called “Corpse.” I found it quite baffling. I passed it along to the person at the other end of the couch, who read it in turn, shook her head, and asked me, “What does it mean?”

I said, “I don’t know—but look at this bit.”

And I pointed out a couple of sentences in the middle, that read, “ . . . the years from twelve to thirty during which nothing was heard of Jesus of Nazareth. They are known as the ‘lost’ years of Jesus.”