My Lord’s carriage was waiting. The driver stood anxiously, alarmed by the sounds of the crowd. He spoke to Aharon, and Aharon realized he couldn’t understand or be understood. He wavered uncertainly, with no idea how to proceed; then he remembered what Kobinski had told him.
“Chebia,” he said to the driver. He took the parchment from his pocket and showed the driver the map. He looked confused. He glanced again up the stairs toward the box.
Aharon lowered the hood to expose his face. “Chebia,” he demanded as the driver drew back in fear. Aharon motioned to the coach, opened the door, and got in.
The sounds from the arena were clearly battle sounds now. Dying screams rent the air. The driver had the look of a dog torn between sticking by its master and fleeing a dangerous situation. Aharon was his excuse to flee. He climbed up to the top of the carriage and, once rolling, moved at top speed. The arena fell away behind them.
Chebia was in the middle of nowhere, a few shacks in a barren wasteland. The community of twenty accepted Aharon without question. Within days, he was working in the field next to Tevach’s father, coaxing rocks from the thin, dusty soil.
His new life was a hard one, bitter as gall. He felt like a Jew from ancient times toiling in some distant land—Egypt, perhaps—lost to his people, sold for a slave. But the physical labor freed his mind to reflect on many things, and he was glad to be away from the City. Now he was only a man, a man doing penance, and that… well, that was perhaps as it should be.
It was three weeks before any carriage approached the village. The carriage brought Tevach. His family stopped their work to greet him, milling about him with tender-eyed pawing. Tevach seemed glad to see him, coming up and smelling him, rubbing his face against Aharon’s arm.
“I thank Adonai that you are safe,” Tevach said.
Aharon was startled at the use of the Hebrew name. He nodded. “And I you, Tevach. I see you survived the fight at the Festival.”
Tevach’s nose twitched with excitement. “Argeh’s guards won a bloody battle and Ahtdeh is in hiding, but he lives! And there are many followers of Ahtdeh now. All will be well.”
Aharon had the feeling that was hopelessly optimistic for Fiori, but he wished it would be so.
Later, after a scanty meal, Tevach took him aside to say good-bye. He handed Aharon the manuscript. “I took it from My Lord’s room. It is for you.”
Aharon ran his hand over the cover, thinking of Kobinski. He briefly considered giving the work to the little mouse, to Fiori. But with all the trouble it had caused on Earth, he guessed it would be more of a curse than a blessing in the long run. Besides, Tevach and Ahtdeh already understood the heart of it.
“Thank you,” he said, swallowing a lump in his throat. He tucked it into his belt.
“My mind thinks often on My Lord,” Tevach said, his small face sincere. “He helped free Ahtdeh—did you see?”
“Yes, Tevach. I saw.”
“When I thought he would do nothing, he helped us. He showed us God cares, even for the Fiore.” Tevach placed his cheek on Aharon’s sleeve again, holding it there for a brief moment. When he pulled away, he looked sad. “You stay here?”
Aharon nodded. “I think that’s best.”
“How long?” Tevach’s eyes were bright and curious, curious, still, about where Aharon had come from and where he might go.
Aharon looked over Tevach’s head, at the cold wasteland of the farm. He sighed. “That, Tevach, is in God’s hands.”
20
Follow the Way of Heaven,
And you will succeed without struggling.
You will know the answer,
Without asking the question.
All you need will come to you,
Without being demanded.
You will be fulfilled
Without knowing desire.
The Way of Heaven is like a vast net.
Although its mesh is wide, it catches everything.
20.1. Forty-Sixty Calder Farris
Pol’s room that night was unbearable. He had an attack of paranoia so strong that he found himself jerking open the hallway door and looking out three or four times. No matter how he tried to talk himself out of it, he could not escape the feeling that they were coming for him, that they knew everything. He searched for bugs again, this time not caring what damage he did: wrenching open the pipe under the bathroom sink, prying the mirror off the wall, making his knuckles bleed probing the shower drain. He found only himself, looking back from the glass.
Alien.
His eyes looked haunted. It was no longer a matter of simply being mad or brain-damaged, was it? There were too many things that didn’t add up.
He went out and checked the hall again, went back to the mirror.
Who am I?
Gyde wanted to find out. He had felt Pol’s arm, which, as far as Pol knew, felt like any other Silver’s arm. He had asked him to go to the gymnasium. Bullshit. Gyde had friends from his youth that he trained with every day. That was not a clique Pol ever had or ever would be invited to join. No, Gyde wanted to see him unwrapped, naked, or maybe had just wanted to see what Pol would do at the mere threat of it, how fast he would scramble. And he had scrambled.
He grabbed his coat, unable to stay in the room any longer. He did not go to the rec club on the Silver campus. Instead he took a bus downtown where a few mixed nightclubs were open past curfew for those with merit passes.
There had not been an air raid that day and the nightclub crowd was edgy, nervous, and overly loud. Pol recognized a few Bronzies from the Department of Monitors. He sat by himself at the bar and ordered fifty proof.
He was on his second when a young Silver in battalion uniform sidled into a seat beside him. The youth was well made, with a square jaw and lively face.
“Greetings, classmate. Are you a detective?”
“That’s right.”
“How do you like it—compared to combat, that is?” The boy was eager.
“I like it.”
“How much?”
Pol looked down into his drink.
“That was a stupid question. Listen, I heard you’re partners with Gyde 332.”
“I am.”
“By the blood! He was at Cross-Plain, wasn’t he? He’s a legend. I’ve heard he’s got so many merits he’s practically—”
“Excuse me.” Pol got up and went to a private table. He ordered two more drinks.
From his semihidden seat he could stare with impunity at a Silver female at the end of the bar. She was a beauty and men hovered near her like planets around a sun. Her form was lithe and muscular, her hair soft and limp around her perfect face like silk tassels in an egg-yolk hue. Her eyes turned to his, bright as little fishes.
He tried to feel something for her, but all he felt was emptiness. Had he had a woman, where he came from? He stretched for the memory, but there was only that aching hollow. He took the pamphlet from his pocket and smoothed it out on the table.
It is possible to travel to other worlds. I have done it myself.
Pol had never tried entering the Department of Monitors late at night, but to his surprise, there was no red tape. The doors remained open for late-night arrests and his ID alone did the trick. It was well past midnight.
Up in the office he went directly to the telex, but the results from Research had not yet arrived. While he waited, his eyes kept wandering to Gyde’s desk. He tried the top drawer, where Gyde had put that file. It was locked.