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“Confession?” Vekrynn suddenly blurted. “Confession! Since when has total dedication to the Preservationist goal been a crime?”

Turning in the direction of the voice, Hargate saw that Vekrynn had risen to his feet. Instinctively he started to roll his chair backwards, but checked himself when he saw that the Mollanian was no longer aware of his existence. Vekrynn had begun to brush the lunar dust from his tunic with slow and uncoordinated movements, and had turned his face to the sky, possibly in the direction of his home world.

“The Government of Mollan can only guide our social evolution by means of one instrument—and that instrument is knowledge. Surely the greatest gift the Bureau of Wardens can bring to the people of Mollan is knowledge. It is my intention, my ambition, to give you sociological data in its ultimate form—the detailed chart of a technological culture from its earliest beginnings to its self-inflicted end.” Vekrynn paused and drew himself up to his full height.

“I am a patriot, and if I am guilty of any wrong it is that of personal pride—I longed to perform the greatest possible service for my people. It is true that when I found the planet Earth in my youth the life expectancy of its inhabitants was close to the human norm, but what is the value of a life spent in that insane chaos? Who could want to endure centuries of such an existence?

“For a culture trying to evolve in that turmoil of third-order forces there could be only one outcome, one inevitable fate. Better by far to accelerate the whole process…to have done with it…and to salvage something of permanent value…” Vekrynn’s tone became uncertain and he lapsed into silence.

“You’re not finished yet,” Hargate prompted. “And time is running out.”

Vekrynn stared briefly at the ominous patch of light which pulsed and pounded low above the horizon. A visible tremor coursed through his body.

“The torpedoes were upper atmosphere coasters of the type used on Mollan during the Second Epoch to seed the biosphere with longevity agents. But in the case of Earth…”

“Go on,” Hargate said, a black chill filtering downwards from his brain, numbing his whole body.

“In the case of Earth they contained a thymosin degrading agent which—over a period of several centuries—had the effect of reducing human life expectancy to…to seven decades.” Vekrynn paused, and when he spoke again his voice was stronger. “My life’s work, my Analytical Notes on the Evolution of One Human Civilisation, will soon be completed and will be of incalculable value to all Mollanians. That is my personal statement, my justification, my boast.”

Hargate gave a deep involuntary sigh which, even to his own ears, sounded like the relinquishment of life. He had expected Vekrynn’s words, the naked confession of a crime that was beyond comprehension, to engulf him in a plasma of hatred and fury—but there was only a melancholic detachment, a sense of resignation. I guess it hardly matters, he thought. It’s just as easy this way, and the end result will be the same.

“I trust you are satisfied,” Vekrynn said loudly and with a hint of manic jubilation. “I am ready now to face my peers, to accept their judgement.”

“I dare say you are.” Hargate backed his chair off a short distance and raised the Mollanian travel trainer from his lap. “But that’s not the way it’s going to be.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you—as well as being a mass-murderer—are a liar, Vekrynn. I’m no psychoanalyst, but I know you don’t really care a shit about preserving the Mollanian culture. You are pathologically afraid of dying, and that’s the real reason for everything you’ve done. Your Notebook is symbolic immortality. You’ve cast yourself in the role of God—overseeing all that happens on Earth, from beginning to end, from Genesis to Revelations—and gods aren’t supposed to die. Are they, Vekrynn?”

Hargate turned his gaze towards the sky and looked at the face of Ceres. It was bloated, poisoned, grinning, visibly swelling. He began to speak faster.

“I’m also saying that you will answer for your crimes right here—not on Mollan. I know that your people don’t believe in the death penalty—but I do. You are looking at your judge, Vekrynn, and I’m sentencing you to death.”

No! This can’t…” Vekrynn swayed once in a complete circle, like a monolith that was being undermined. “You don’t want to die.”

“That’s right,” Hargate said, summoning up his lop-sided grin. “But I’m a vindictive little bastard.”

He tensed himself for flight, fearing that desperation might enable Vekrynn to overcome his slow-fading paralysis, but the Mollanian stood perfectly still, transfixed, mumbling. His eyes were locked on the fell apparition that had begun to dominate the lower sky.

Holding the pliant metal of the travel trainer before his face, whispering its mathematical spell, Hargate engaged the drive of his chair and slowly circled around the nodal point to a position from which he could see both Vekrynn and the hurtling mass of Ceres. The asteroid now occupied an area many times larger than that of the Moon as seen from Earth, and its tumbling motion was clearly apparent, giving it an intimidating solidity not associated with celestial objects. It was easy for Hargate, staring at the expanding asteroid, to appreciate that the energy bound up in it would be enough to set the Moon spinning wildly on its axis, to bring about the gravitational destruction of an entire world.

It can’t be long now, he mused. Two minutes, three at the most—then everything will be the way it was before I was born.

He considered the prospect with a kind of wan disbelief, and his consciousness ricocheted away into the past. Again he felt the handgrips of the duralloy crutches become buttery with sweat, again he heard the purposeful drone of insects and rustle of dry grasses. The yellow hillside shimmered before his eyes and the plume of field maples beckoned at its crest against a wind-busy sky. He was going again to Cotter’s Edge, to the secret place, and there he was going to meet…

“Gretana!” He called her name involuntarily as the slim, auburn-haired figure—looking exactly as she had done when he was twelve years old—materialised at the nodal point close to Vekrynn, as though he had conjured her by the sheer force of his nostalgic longing. She glanced once at Vekrynn, who was still lost in communion with his blind executioner, then came running towards Hargate. Boosted by the weakness of the lunar gravity, she covered the intervening ground in two precarious steps, lost her balance and pitched on to her knees at Hargate’s side, gripping the arm of his chair for support. The miracle of her presence swamped his senses.

“You’ve got to let Vekrynn go,” she pleaded, green eyes seizing on his. “You’ve done enough, Denny—hundreds of people at the habitat heard what he said.”

“That isn’t enough,” he said dully, wondering how he could deny her anything. “Not for Vekrynn.”

“But you don’t want to be a killer.”

“You’re wrong, Gretana.” He reached out and touched the face that had haunted most of his days, then a new kind of fear geysered through his mind. “For God’s sake, get out of here! Get away from this place!”

Almost smiling, she touched the gleaming sculpture of the travel trainer. “How can I, Denny? You’re holding me here.”

Hargate sobbed once in his anguish as he collapsed the artifact into the neutral configuration.