They followed the man and his music through the dark valley, Phecda pausing only to devour the remains of the previous day’s weather report for Greater Los Angeles.
“Let us pass him,” Phecda said at length, “for I can tell from a feeling to the land that the master will meet him in the valley, two bends hence.”
“Very well.”
They skirted the foothills to a ridge, crossed through a declivity, raced ahead to another such gap, crossed the valley into which it debouched, and mounted a hill. The music came from far behind them now. Ahead and below within the great vale they saw a slow movement.
Death climbed a small mound, extended his arms, and turned in a circle. Then bones rose up out of the ground, fell down from the heights, rushed toward him in a chaos of rattling forms, came together before him, assembled themselves into a structure. Soon a high-backed throne stood there, surmounted by a skull. It shone like ancient ivory in the valley’s quiet light. As Death took a step forward, the excess bones flew away to outline a path leading out to the mouth of the valley at its turning. He moved to the rear of the throne then, where he opened his cloak to release a spectral form which hovered behind its knobby back.
Returning to the front, he seated himself. Raising first his right hand, then his left, flames came up on either side, creating shadows. The music grew louder.
“The boss really knows how to do things with style,” Dubhe remarked.
“He does seem to take a certain pleasure in the dramatic,” Phecda observed as they descended and moved into a nearer patch of shadow.
Phecda and Dubhe waited for what seemed a long while. The sounds continued to increase in volume. Then there was movement at the end of the valley.
The man halted and stared. Then he advanced slowly along the bony way, his music all about him. When he came to the foot of the mound, he stopped again.
“…And our visitor seems similarly inclined,” Phecda added.
“True.”
Death turned his head toward the visitor. He spoke in a ragged, rattling way his minions had not heard him use before:
“You come to me playing Politian’s Orfeo, arguably the world’s first opera. A fine piece, which I have not heard in a long while. Of course, this also stirs memories of a story I have not heard in a long while.”
“I’d thought it might,” the man replied.
“I know you, John D’Arcy Donnerjack. I am an admirer of your work. I am especially fond of the delightful fantasy of the afterlife you designed based on Dante’s Inferno.”
“The critics liked it, but the public proved somewhat less than enthusiastic.”
“It is generally that way with my work, also.”
Donnerjack stared, not certain how to respond until Death chuckled.
“A small jest,” the cloaked one added. “In truth, few consider me an actual being. I might be curious as to how you arrived at this conclusion—let alone decided to undertake this journey and succeeded in finding your way here.”
“My life’s work has involved Virtu, and I am among other things a theorist,” Donnerjack replied.
“I feel it will be worth spending time with you one day, in discussion of theory.”
Donnerjack smiled.
“I might enjoy that. You would seem the logical source for final opinions.”
“Mine is not really the last word on everything. Generally, I leave it to others.”
Death cocked his head and fell silent, until the current passage had finished.
“Lovely,” he said then. “I take it you seek to induce in me a mood of esthetic pleasure?”
Donnerjack placed the small unit which he bore on the ground at Death’s feet.
“I admit to that intention,” he answered. “Please accept the player as a gift. There are many other melodies on it as well.”
“I will do that, with thanks, since most things that come to me are damaged—as well you know.”
Donnerjack nodded, stroked his beard.
“The thought had occurred to me,” he said, “and it concerned something which I suppose came to you recently.”
“Yes?”
“Her name was—is—Ayradyss. A dark-haired lady of some attractiveness. I’d known her well for a time.”
“As have I, also,” Death replied. “Yes, she is here. And your manner of arrival as well as your visit itself leads me to anticipate you to some extent.”
“I want her back,” Donnerjack said.
“What you ask is impossible.”
“It figures in legend, folklore, religion. Surely there must be some basis to it, some precedent.”
“Embodiments of dreams, hopes, desires. That is what these things are. They are without foundation in the real world.”
“This is Virtu.”
“Virtu is as real as Verite. It is the same in both places.”
“I cannot accept that there is no hope.”
“John D’Arcy Donnerjack, the universe owes no one a happy ending.”
“You say that it is impossible for you to give back that which you have taken?”
“That which I have received is damaged in some fashion and no longer able to function adequately.”
“That which is damaged can be repaired.”
“That is not the sort of thing for which I am known.”
Donnerjack made a sweeping gesture, encompassing half the landscape.
“You must have the wherewithal here—in the form of every sort of piece or program—to repair anything,” he said.
“Perhaps.”
“Release her to me. You like my Inferno. I will design you another space—to suit your desire.”
“You tempt me, Donnerjack.”
“Have we a deal, then?”
“It would take more than that.”
“Name the price of her return.”
“What you ask would be difficult, even for me. You ask me to reverse entropy, albeit locally, to invert standard procedure and policy.”
“Who else might I ask?”
“Some great artificer might duplicate her for you.”
“But she would not be the same, save superficially. All of her memories would be gone. It would really be a different individual.”
“And that one might not feel for you as she did?”
“I care more about her than I do about myself.”
“Ah, then you really loved her.”
Donnerjack was silent.
“And you intended to share your lives?”
“Yes.”
“In Virtu or Verite?”
Donnerjack laughed.
“I would spend what time I could with her in Virtu. Then—”
“Ah, yes, there is always that interface, isn’t there? But then, even with those having one or the other realm in common, there is always an interface—if only of skin. Usually, it runs even deeper.”
“I did not come here to discuss metaphysics.”
Death raised his smile.
“…And she would visit you in hard-holo, there in the Verite.”
“Of course, we would alternate, and—”
“You ask a disposition of me. I am surprised you were not more specific.”
“In what fashion?”
“That I release her to you in Verite rather than Virtu.”
“That is impossible.”
“If I am to violate one law of existence for you, why not another?”
“But the principles which govern this place would not permit it. There is no way to manage the ‘visit’ effect permanently, fully either way.”
“And if there were?”
“I have made a lifetime study of this.”