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object. But then, he couldn't imagine that Ossidge would ever even dream of making that trip; making the
Big Mistake. . . .
He dropped into the seductive softness of his desk chair, letting it re-form around him. Just for a moment.
. . . Just for a moment adrenaline stopped spilling into his bloodstream, and he was vulnerable. If he could only close his eyes, empty his mind and meditate, have one uninterrupted moment of peace, before . . . He pushed himself up out of his seat angrily, wincing as the abrupt motion hurt the half-healed wound on his side. He
WORLD S END
forced the pain out of his mind, as he had done over and over again for the past month.
He needed this time, this final stolen hour, for something more important than rest. So much had changed, and was about to change, in his life. He needed time to remember who he was.
He touched his belt buckle, pressing the hidden
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speaker button on its built-in recorder. The recorder had a direct memory feed, which he had used when he had kept the journal--to keep it private, pointless mental digressions and all. But now he left it on voice, hearing it mimic his own speech, the sounds familiar yet sufficiently distorted to seem almost impersonal.
The voice said, "Today I arrived at World's End...."
He turned back to the window, frowning at the rain tracks on the pane. Rain again. Doesn 't it ever stop? But he knew the answer. No more than time does. He sat down on the deep sill, resting his forehead against the glass, letting the utter exhaustion of his body and mind hold him there. He watched as his breath condensed into fog, obliterating the present, and felt the empty room behind him fill up with ghosts.
day i.
Today I arrived at World's End. It's still difficult for me even to believe I'm thinking those words.
But I've decided to record everything I experience here, as completely as possible. The notes of a reasonably objective observer can only be an improvement
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over the mass of lurid misinformation about this place.
And if anything should happen--never mind. . . .
The shuttle trip from Foursgate was uneventful to the point of tedium. I could almost have Page 5
believed that I was simply another tourist sightseeing on a strange world
. . . except that there were only two other people on the flight, and neither one of them looked pleased about their destination. I didn't speak to them, and they returned the favor. The sky was overcast for almost the entire trip; I saw nothing of the world so far below. For all I knew we could have been circling Foursgate for two hours instead of covering half a planet.
When we landed the terminal was exactly like half a dozen others I've seen here on Number Four--a masterpiece of the banality that passes for modern on this world. The planetwide Port Authority runs its franchises with the same mindless efficiency wherever they are-- even at the end of the world.
As I crossed the invisible climate-control barrier that separated the terminal from the real world outside, I
finally began to realize that I had come to World's End
... I had really made the Big Mistake.
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world's end
The heat was suffocating. The air was so thick with moisture and strange odors that breathing itself was difficult. I dropped the bags that held the few belongings I'd brought with me, and looked for some sort of transportation.
If there was anything, even a ground vehicle, it wasn't running. The two locals who had been on my flight passed me worldlessly and began walking away down a cinder track. I thought I could see some sort of buildings in the distance, which I assumed were the town. A jungle of unwholesome-looking plant life pressed in on the road and the terminal. There were black scorch marks where the flora had been burned back recently along the roadsides. I took off my heavy jacket, picked up my belongings, and began to walk.
I stopped again as I reached a gateway at the edge of town.
WELCOME TO WORLD'S END
someone had scrawled on the blistered wall, complete
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with the official seals.
THE ASSHOLE OF THE HEGEMONY.
It struck me like a slap in the face, a grotesque insult. I stared at it until the tension of my clenched jaw made my face hurt--made me remember who I'm not, here. I
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said to myself, "It's not your problem."
I looked through the gateway, feeling as if someone were watching me. But the shuttered whiteness of the street was empty; the buildings lay dazed in the insufferable humidity of the early afternoon. I stood there awhile longer, feeling the sweat crawl down my chest beneath the coarse cloth of my loose blue tunic; suddenly
I longed for the security of a uniform. My head began to throb with the silent rhythm of the heat... and
JOAN D. VINGE
all at once the whiteness of the street seemed to shimmer and re-form as endless fields of snow.
A mirage, a hallucination
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--I've seen it a hundred times. You'd think a sane man would be able to put it out of his mind, after so long. ... I hunched my shoulders, feeling a chill as I went on through the gate.
The first thing I did in the town was buy a sun helmet and a drink of cold water--they don't give away anything here, not even water. This is the Company's town, as the shopkeeper informed me, not a resort. The conglomerate that controls World's End is known as Universal Processing Consolidated, back in Foursgate. But out here they are simply the Company, the only, and they've grown bloated and corrupt on their monopolistic exploitation. Their presence is everywhere as you walk the streets--on signs, on people's lips, on their dreary uniform coveralls. No one looks at anyone else for longer than they have to here; but I still felt as though hidden eyes followed me constantly. ¡
This town seems to have no name. It ceitainly has no individual identity. It exists to serve the Company, as a supply center and as a bottleneck for the countless fortune hunters drawn to World's End year after year--all of them certain they'll be the ones to strike it rich. The Company tolerates a limited number of independent prospectors who want to explore the wilderness, who are
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willing to run risks that even the Company won't in searching out resources. It takes no responsibility for their fates, but it takes half of their profits, if any. They get their permits here; I suppose I'll have to enquire about that.
World's End is an obsession for too many of them, the fools. I suppose it's worthy, even fitting, that it should be. World's End is a canker at the heart of Number Four's largest continent, millions of kilometers of terrain that are still virtually unknown after centuries of Hege
WORLD S END
monic control. There's been good reason to explore it, and to believe in the tales of fortunes for Page 7
the taking; the
Company is proof enough of that. The profits they've taken out of the wastes have made Universal Processing more powerful on Number Four than anything but the Planetary Council. Rich ores lie hidden out there, veins of precious minerals, fist-sized gemstones--unimaginable wealth.