The scintillant amber light swooped and swirled through the walls, as if The Friend was delighted by the effect of the blow it had struck.
Despair welled so high in Jim that for a moment he even dared to consider that the entity under the pond was not good at all but purely evil. Maybe the people he had saved since May fifteenth were not destined to elevate the human condition but debase it. Maybe Nicholas O'Conner was really going to grow up to be a serial killer. Maybe Billy Jenkins was going to be a bomber pilot who went rogue and found a way to override all the safeguards in the system in order to drop a few nuclear weapons on a major metropolitan area; and maybe instead of being the greatest woman statesman in the history of the world, Susie Jawolski was going to be a radical activist who planted bombs in corporate boardrooms and machine-gunned those with whom she disagreed.
But as he swayed precariously on the rim of that black chasm, Jim saw in memory the face of young Susie Jawolski, which had seemed to be the essence of innocence. He could not believe that she would be anything less than a positive force in the lives of her family and neighbors. He had done good works; therefore The Friend had done good works, whether or not it was insane, and even though it had the capacity to be cruel.
Holly addressed the entity within the walclass="underline" “We have more questions.”
“Ask them, ask them.”
Holly glanced at her tablet, and Jim hoped she would remember to be less aggressive. He sensed that The Friend was more unstable than at any previous point during the night.
She said, “Why did you choose Jim to be your instrument?”
“He was convenient.”
“You mean because he lived on the farm?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever worked through anyone else the way you've been working through Jim?”
“No.”
“Not in all these ten thousand years?”
“Is this a trick question? Do you think you can trick me? Do you still not believe me when I tell you the truth?”
Holly looked at Jim, and he shook his head, meaning that this was no time to be argumentative, that discretion was not only the better part of valor but their best hope of survival.
Then he wondered if this entity could read his mind as well as intrude into it and implant directives. Probably not. If it could do that, it would flare into anger now, incensed that they still thought it insane and were patronizing it.
“I'm sorry,” Holly said. “It wasn't a trick question, not at all. We just want to know about you. We're fascinated by you. If we ask questions that you find offensive, please understand that we do so unintentionally, out of ignorance.”
The Friend did not reply.
The light pulsed more slowly through the limestone, and though Jim knew the danger of interpreting alien actions in human terms, he felt that the changed patterns and tempo of the radiance indicated The Friend was in a contemplative mood. It was chewing over what Holly had just said, deciding whether or not she was sincere.
Finally the voice came again, more mellow than it had been in a while: “Ask your questions.”
Consulting her tablet again, Holly said, “Will you ever release Jim from this work?”
“Does he want to be released?”
Holly looked at Jim inquiringly.
Considering what he had been through in the past few months, Jim was a bit surprised by his answer: “Not if I'm actually doing good.”
“You are. How can you doubt it? But regardless of whether you believe my intentions to be good or evil, I would never release you.”
The ominous tone of that last statement mitigated the relief Jim felt at the reassurance that he had not saved the lives of future murderers and thieves.
Holly said, “Why have you—”
The Friend interrupted. “There is one other reason that I chose Jim Ironheart for this work.”
“What's that?” Jim asked.
“You needed it.”
“I did?”
“Purpose.”
Jim understood. His fear of The Friend was as great as ever, but he was moved by the implication that it had wanted to salvage him. By giving meaning to his broken and empty life, it had redeemed him just as surely as it had saved Billy Jenkins, Susie Jawolski, and all the others, though they had been rescued from more immediate deaths than the death of the soul that had threatened Jim. The Friend's statement seemed to reveal a capacity for pity. And Jim knew he'd deserved pity after the suicide of Larry Kakonis, when he had spiraled into an unreasonable depression. This compassion, even if it was another lie, affected Jim more strongly than he would have expected, and a shimmer of tears came to his eyes.
Holly said, “Why have you waited ten thousand years to decide to use someone like Jim to shape human destinies?”
“I had to study the situation first, collect data, analyze it, and then decide if my intervention was wise.”
“It took ten thousand years to make that decision? Why? That's longer than recorded history.”
No reply.
She tried the question again.
At last The Friend said, “I am going now.” Then, as if it did not want them to interpret its recent display of compassion as a sign of weakness, it added: “If you attempt to leave, you will die. ”
“When will you be back?” Holly asked.
“Do not sleep.”
“We're going to have to sleep sooner or later,” Holly said as the amber light turned red and the room seemed to be washed in blood.
“Do not sleep.”
“It's two in the morning,” she said.
“Dreams are doorways.”
Holly flared up: “We can't stay awake forever, damn it!”
The light in the limestone was snuffed out.
The Friend was gone.
Somewhere people laughed. Somewhere music played and dancers danced, and somewhere lovers strained toward ecstasy.
But in the high room of the mill, designed for storage and now stacked to the ceiling with an anticipation of violence, the mood was decidedly grim.
Holly loathed being so helpless. Throughout her life she had been a woman of action, even if the actions she took were usually destructive rather than constructive. When a job turned out to be less satisfying than she had hoped, she never hesitated to resign, move on. When a relationship soured or just proved uninteresting, she was always quick to terminate it. If she had often retreated from problems — from the responsibilities of being a conscientious journalist when she had seen that journalism was as corrupt as anything else, from the prospect of love, from putting down roots and committing to one place — well, at least retreat was a form of action. Now she was denied even that.
The Friend had that one good effect on her. It was not going to let her retreat from this problem.
For a while she and Jim discussed the latest visitation and went over the remaining questions on her list, to which they made changes and additions. The most recent portion of her ongoing interview with The Friend had resulted in some interesting and potentially useful information. It was only potentially useful, however, because they both still felt that nothing The Friend said could be relied upon to be true.
By 3:15 in the morning, they were too weary to stand and too bottom-sore to continue sitting. They pulled their sleeping bags together and stretched out side by side, on their backs, staring at the domed ceiling.