High mists shrouded the sun. "Phog will come," Progenitor said, excited. He was feeble now, too old to forage for himself. He would have died some time ago, had Mat not made the tribesmen bring him food. But the man's advice was valuable; only he and one other really understood what Mat was trying to do.
Abruptly he lifted the protectors from the two relay boxes near him. Immediately the bright light leaped forth, illuminating the spaces between the columns and forming a glowing cage in the dust. The effect was magical; but Mat well knew that the shafts of Phoebus traveled from stone to stone in fixed pattern, and would go astray if even a single reflector were out of place. Many times had he gone hungry while he struggled with the balance, tapping the surfaces into place, only to have others jarred out of position. The final adjustment had been interminable—but the cage was ready.
"Phog!" Progenitor announced, shivering. Increasing age had not added to his courage. He watched the distant bank with familiar horror.
Mat dropped the curtain on the relay to his right, and the four shimmering walls blinked out. He doused the left, and the fainter bars forming a roof between the crosspieces vanished. Somehow the cage did not show up well unless there was much dust, and the dust was low, usually. But the test had been successful. "Place the bait," he said.
His attention was distracted by an approaching figure, while the old man struggled with the carrion. Jul was running toward them, her dark hair flying back in pretty tangles as she bounced. She had matured considerably.
Mat turned away, keeping his attention on Phog. Progenitor dragged the meat to the center of the cage area and retreated, panting. It was a task he had insisted on doing alone.
Phog approached from one side, Jul from the other. "Are you going to fight it?" she demanded needlessly.
Mat kept his eyes clear of her beauty. "Go away," he said. He knew she would not.
Phog arrived. The stench of it blasted out ahead, sickeningly. It swirled around the stone pillars and smirched the bait, burying it in thick scum. It reached across the gap toward them.
"Not yet," Mat said tightly.
Phog advanced almost to their station. The three stood, fascinated by it as always, but no longer panicked. They knew the power dammed in the relays, as the tribesmen did not; this time they stayed to conquer, not to run.
The menacing bladders distended the filthy surface, no less loathsome for all their insubstantiality. The corrupt froth washed almost at their feet.
"It comes! It comes!" Progenitor shouted.
There was a whirring within; a thump from the direction of the cage. Mat yanked away the curtains.
The fierce beams leaped to the mirrors, slicing through the murky shape immediately. For the first time they saw the actual progress of the light, as it sprang from comer to corner, vaporizing the reluctant mist between and climbing in a quick spiral. In a moment Phog withdrew in agony; but it left a block of its substance behind, snared by the bright enclosure. The trap had been sprung.
The isolated mass hissed and shrank as Mat unveiled the third relay and played its beam upon the interior. "We have you now, killer of children!" he cried. Eagerly they watched for the exposure of the scabrous monster that had to lurk within.
The cube of filth sagged into amorphous lumps. The choking stink of it filled the air as it puffed into a bubbling residue. At last it was gone, revealing—
The untouched carcass.
"But it was here," Jul said. "We heard it."
Mat stared in confusion. The Runner had been present; the spoor was there. But it had not touched the meat.
"It needs live food," Jul said. "A—a sacrifice."
He should have guessed! Furious, Mat looked at the sky. The upper vapors were thinning; Phoebus would return soon, and their chance would be gone.
Too much hung on this encounter. He could not wait for another opportunity. It would be nearly impossible to bring a live animal to the enclosure at the exact moment Phog came, and keep it there untethered. Tied, the animal would jolt the stones, disturbing the delicate alignment necessary for the cage. He had to act now, while the Runner was watching.
Mat picked up the weapon he had fashioned to cow the tribesmen: a long pointed stone fragment. He doused the beams.
Jul clutched his arm as he stepped forward. "No," she said. "The Runner will kill you!"
He shook her off. "Progenitor—you must unveil the beams. Take care that you release them together, or it will take flight as it did before."
The ancient looked at him, comprehending what he intended. Phog was already invading the vital spot, forgetful of its recent misery there. Somewhere—was there a whirring?
"No!" Jul cried again, throwing herself before him. "You are brave, you are a leader. No one else can drive back Phog."
He set her aside, more gently this time. "I will kill the Runner if I can," he said. "Only living flesh will lure it into the cage. Then—Phoebus will not let it escape."
Still she clung. "Not you, not you!" She flung back her head defiantly. "I have no strength, no courage. This only can I do—"
Phog loomed over them, casting out its wispy tentacles. But for the moment Mat forgot it, discovering almost too late what courage was.
This girl—this lovely woman the age of Sal—was asking to sacrifice herself to the Runner, that he might live. He had shunned her as the reminder of his shame, as the sister he had betrayed by his cowardice, so long ago. Now he looked full into the face he had feared, and found there not a ghost but a vital passion, an encompassing love—for him.
He realized that there would after all be other times; that with patience and intelligence he could snare the Runner without risking human life.
An anguished scream rent the air.
"Progenitor!" He bounded to the control boxes, whipping free the restrictive curtains. The dazzling light speared out once more, forming the enclosure. But there was no further sound from the old man.
As Phog retreated, leaving another cube of itself pinioned in the silvery cage, Mat saw that Progenitor's death had not been in vain. There was a frenzied whirring within the enclosure of light. The Runner had been caught at last.
Not alone had Mat borne his guilt.
THE GHOST GALAXIES
My original title for this story was "Ghost"; the editor at If retitled it, thereby giving away the conclusion. If you want to know the third worst bane of a writer's life, after Writer's Block and Critics, it is Editors. They tend to come across as ignorant little dictators who try to mess up a piece if they can't find a pretext to reject it outright. (Of course, editors might have something similar to say about writers....) The various Galaxy Publications, over the years, have been worse than most in this regard. "Ghost" was a phenomenal effort on my part, requiring several drafts over several years, and mind-bending calculations. Several markets rejected it before If took it for a piddling one cent a word and published it in 1966. Unsatisfied, I novelized it—that is, I rewrote it, expanding it into a full novel, Ghost, with updated science (the story version is now sadly dated)—and the book publishers bounced it. I finally got an expression of interest from Dell, but the editor wanted revision of the opening. He had some good points, so I wrote 17,000 words of new material—whereupon the editor moved to another company, and the novel was rejected, and remains unsold. I'm a slow learner, but episodes like this taught me cynicism. Today I won't even start to write a novel, let alone revise it, unless I have a signed contract and money in hand. And I have this minor bit of advice for editors: if you insist on kicking the writers, don't be surprised when they start kicking you.