"General Karr?"
Karr, who had been turning away, turned back. "Yes, Shih Ward?"
"Surgeon Hu seems to be in control of things here, so I wondered . . . well, I wondered whether I might leave matters in his capable hands and come with you. I'd like to see how things are. You know, get a feel of the broader picture. It might help, especially as all of this seems to be linked."
Karr hesitated a moment, as if embarrassed by the request, then nodded. "All right. But there's one thing 1 must do first. If you'll wait here for half an hour, I'll send my equerry tor you. Maybe we'll have dinner, neh?"
Kim smiled and lowered his head respectfully.~"W like that, General Karr. I'd like that very much." * * *
MEG SHOULDERED the door open, then turned and made her way down the steps, carrying the tray across the half-lit living room.
"What's happening?" she asked as she set it down beside her brother.
Ben was sprawled out full length on the sofa, watching the wall screen.
"They're announcing a great victory—our enemies trounced and peace restored—which probably means we've scraped through by the skin of our teeth and the grace of Almighty God."
She took one of the earthenware bowls from the tray and offered it to him. He sat up, his eyes never leaving the screen.
"The truth is," he continued, taking the bowl, "we're fortunate there's such a delicate balance of power. Lehmann is more powerful than any of the States surrounding him. Left alone, he could bring Li Yuan to his knees in a week. But his enemies—the African Mountain Lords and the West Asian Warlords—wouldn't let him. If they saw him go for Li Yuan's throat, they'd go for his. They're like jackals sitting in a tree, waiting for their prey to fall."
"And will we fall?"
Ben looked to her. "One day."
He sniffed at the soup, then, taking the spoon from the bowl, began to eat. It was a broth she'd made up from the remainders of the rabbit stew they'd had earlier. He grunted his satisfaction, then sat back, watching the screen again.
"The media can't tell the half of it. If they did there'd be panic in the levels. The Enclave would self-destruct. That's why they need what I do. Distractions." He laughed. "You know, that pompous puffball Tung Chung-shu was right for once. Distractions, that's precisely what I make. Artful distractions." He took a spoonful of the soup, then gave a thoughtful grunt. "Makers. It's all made, don't you think?"
"Model" She narrowed her eyes and stared at him.
"Mankind. Intelligence. The Universe. It all has the stamp of something made. I can't believe that Chance threw it all together, however long it had to do the job. Chance could take three eternities and not create a piece of coal, let alone a thinking being. But what made the thing that made it? And what made that?"
"Maybe Chance and a piece of coal were enough."
He laughed. "It's not even that I want a god behind it all. Not someone like Great Father Amos, anyway. I want . . ." He sighed. "Well, to be honest with you, Meg, I don't know quite what I want, but I don't want a man with a white beard and a benign expression, nor even a woman with a white beard, come to that. I just want some kind of principle that explains it all. That makes sense of it without reducing it all back down to Chance."
"And a piece of coal."
He looked at her and smiled, mouthed another spoonful of soup, then carried on, the screen forgotten.
"That's why the darkness is so important. You know, some days I have the feeling that if I could just step through, into the darkness—if I could just tear that veil and penetrate it—then I might see and understand exactly how things are. As it is, it excludes me. It keeps itself from me."
She stared at him. Sometimes he frightened her with his talk of the dark. Darkness ... for him it was not merely the absence of light, but a quality in its own right—not a negative but a positive, a different state of being. And sometimes—just sometimes—she was convinced that what he described by the term dark was that same thing that others called "death," the ultimate darkness.
She looked past him at the half-open window. Outside it was dark, the valley echoing still. Night birds called beneath the moon. She shivered.
"Will you sleep with me tonight?"
He looked at her and smiled, then looked beyond her. She turned, her eyes searching the shadows. It was Tom. He was crouched on the turn of the stairs, silent, his dark eyes taking in everything. Briefly she wondered what he thought, what exactly he saw with those eyes of his.
One day he would speak and tell her.
"Do you want some soup, Tom?"
He did not move. His eyes looked past her, watching Ben, his father-uncle.
"I was going to work," Ben said. "But if you want . . ."
She turned back. Ben was watching his son, an amused curiosity in his face. She heard a scuffling behind her, padded footsteps and the creak of the door as it opened and then closed. A moment later the outer door slammed.
"He'll be okay," Ben said, putting down his bowl, then coming around to her. "He always is."
She nodded, letting him put his arms about her and kiss her, feeling that-same, strange thrill she always felt when he touched her. "Yes," ^she said. "But draw the curtains, Ben. Please . . ."
THE BOY RAN DOWN the sloping path beneath the moon, his bare feet making no sound on the tight-packed earth. The ground felt warm beneath him, the valley alive with mysterious secrets. The darkness was intense beneath the trees on the far side of the bay and if he closed his eyes he could forget the City crowding in on every side— that pale luminescence that towered above the valley's pleasant slopes. If he closed his eyes . . .
He stopped, opening his eyes again, staring out across the water's surface. He was standing on the edge. One step farther and he would have fallen. He smiled. The moonlight was dancing on the water like a thread of silver. His eyes went up, finding the full moon in the sky. It was like a hole in the darkness. A portal into otherness.
He reached upward, stretching on tiptoe as he tried to touch it, then relaxed, a wistful little sigh rippling through him.
North, a voice said in his head. Look north.
He looked, no longer conscious of where he stood, drawn out of himself, that voice—familiar and yet strange—calling to him again across the miles, distant and yet close.
Yes, he said silently, shaping the word with his lips. Yes. . . .
And felt the echo ripple back to him from the darkness. Yes, it said. I'm here.
SAMPSA STOOD in the cliff garden of Kalevala, gazing south. Behind him his mother sat on the low bench, looking out across the moonlit sea, her hair like spun silver against the black of her dress.
"He's there," he said, lifting his face as if to sniff the air.
She looked to him. "Who? Kim?"
"No. The other one. The one who never speaks."
She laughed uncomfortably, then stood and went across, kneeling and putting her hands on his shoulders.
"You imagine it."
He turned his face, looking at her. "No. I can sense him there. He's outside." He turned back. "North," he said softly, as if speaking to someone. "Look north."
She looked past him, frowning, then felt him shiver.
"Yes," he said. "I'm here."
"Sampsa?" But it was as if he was suddenly not there. His eyes were shining with an inner light, his lips smiling.
"You imagine it," she said again, squeezing his shoulders gently, feeling suddenly cold. "Let's go inside." "Sampsa," he said. "Sam-psa . . . Yes."
She shuddered, then stood. "Sampsa!" she said, an edge in her voice.
He turned and looked up at her, his eyes still bright, still shining, then nodded. "He's gone now," he said, matter-of-factly. "I felt him go. He was standing beside the water, like we are, but much closer. And the moon—the moon was so bright where he stood. It was like an eye, staring down."