By the time Tommy got upstairs, the class was having afternoon recess. He went reluctantly out into the schoolyard, avoiding everyone, not wanting to be seen and shunned. He was aware that he now carried contamination and unease around with him like a leper. But the class was already uneasy, and he saw why. The Other People were flowing in a circle all around the schoolyard, staring avidly in at the humans. There were more different types there than Tommy had ever seen at one time before. He recognized some very rare kinds of Other People, dangerous ones that the Thant had told him about—one who would throw things about wildly if he got into your house, feeding off anger and dismay, and another one with a face like a stomach who would suck a special kind of stuff from you, and you’d burst into flames and burn up when he finished, because you didn’t have the stuff in you anymore. And others whom he didn’t recognize, but who looked dangerous and hostile. They all looked expectant. Their hungry pressure was so great that even the other children could feel it—they moved jerkily, with a strange fear beginning in their eyes, occasionally casting glances over their shoulders, without knowing why. Tommy walked to the other side of the schoolyard. There was a grassy slope here, leading down to a soccer field bordered by a thin fringe of trees, and he stood looking aimlessly out over it.
Abruptly, his mouth opened, and the Thant’s voice said, “Come down the slope.”
Trembling, Tommy crept down to the edge of the soccer field. This was most definitely not a Place, but the Thant was there, standing just within the trees, staring at Tommy with his strange red eyes. They looked at each other for a while.
“What’d you want?” Tommy finally said.
“We’ve come to say good-bye,” the Thant replied. “It is almost time for you all to be made not. The”—flick—”first phase of the Project was started this morning and the second phase began a little while ago. It should not take too long, Man, not more than a few days.”
“Will it hurt?” Tommy asked.
“We do not think so, Man. We are”—and it flicked through his mind until it found a place where Mr. Brogan, the science teacher, was saying “entropy” to a colleague in the hall as Tommy walked by—”increasing entropy. That’s what makes everything fall apart, what”—flick—”makes an ice cube melt, what”—flick—’’makes a cold glass get warm after a while. We are increasing entropy. Both our”—flick—”races live here, but yours uses this, the physical, more than ours. So we will not have to increase entropy much”—flick—“just a little, for a little while. You are more”—flick—”vulnerable to it than we are. It will not be long, Man.”
Tommy felt the world tilting, crumbling away under his feet. “I trusted you guys,” he said in a voice of ashes. “I thought you were keen.” The last prop had been knocked out from under him—all his life he had cherished a fantasy, although he refused to admit it even to himself, that he was actually one of the Other People, and that someday they would come to get him and bring him in state to live in their world, and he would come into his inheritance and his fulfillment. Now, bitterly, he knew better. And now he wouldn’t want to go, even if he could.
“If there were any way,” the Thant said, echoing his thoughts, “to save you, Man, to”—flick—”exempt you, then we would. But there is no way. You are a Man, you are not as we are.”
“You bet I ain’t,” he gasped fiercely, “you—” But there was no word in his vocabulary strong enough. His eyes filled suddenly with tears, blinding him. Filled with rage, loathing and terror, he turned and ran stumblingly back up the slope, falling, scrambling up again.
“We are sorry, Man,” the Thant called after him, but he didn’t hear.
By the time Tommy reached the top of the slope, he had begun to shout hysterically. Somehow he had to warn them, he had to get through to somebody. Somebody had to do something. He ran through the schoolyard, crying, shouting about the aliens and Thants and entropy, shoving at his classmates to get them to go inside and hide, striking at the teachers and ducking away when they tried to grab him, telling them to do something, until at some point he was screaming instead of shouting, and the teachers were coming at him in a line, very seriously, with their arms held low to catch him.
Then he dodged them all, and ran.
When they got themselves straightened out, they went after him in the black sedan. They caught up with him about a mile down Highland Avenue. He was running desperately along the road shoulder, not looking back, not looking at anything. The rangy truant officer got out and ran him down.
And they loaded him in the sedan again. And they took him away.
At dawn on the third day, the aliens began to build a Machine.
Dr. Kruger listened to the tinny, unliving voice of Miss Fredricks until it scratched into silence, then he hung up the telephone. He shook his head, massaged his stomach, and sighed hugely. He got out a memo form, and wrote on it: MBD/hyperactive, Thomas Nolan, 150 ccs. Ritmose t b ad. dly. fr. therapy, in green ink. Kruger admired his precise, angular handwriting for a moment, and then he signed his name, with a flourish. Sighing again, he put the form into his Out basket.
Tommy was very quiet in school the next day. He sat silently in the back of the class, with his hands folded together and placed on the desk in front of him. Hard, slate light came in through the window and turned his hands and face gray, and reflected dully from his dull gray eyes. He did not make a sound.
A little while later, they finished winding down the world.
The Shrine of Sebastian by GORDON EKLUND
Gordon Eklund, who lives near Berkeley, California, began writing professionally after completing his Air Force service. His first story, “Dear Aunt Annie,” published in the spring of 1970, drew immediate favorable attention; since then he has written a number of well-praised short pieces and several outstanding novels, including The Eclipse of Dawn (1971) and Beyond the Resurrection (1973).
Thence Sebastian journeyed to the glorious city of Rome, wherein dwelled those men who claimed to be the wisest on Earth, and there he preached his message of divine salvation, calling upon all men to flee their empty and desolate homes and journey to the place where the great ships stood like silver trees beneath the raw Floridian sun ready to bear the children of God upon the long voyage to the new world of Advent, where the Lord Himself waited to bless and love them. But the rulers of Rome, in those years, were petty and jealous men who called Sebastian to their rich palace and there accused him of heresy against the Lord and His Church. But Sebastian cried Nay, proclaiming that the truth alone had been spoken directly to him, and if the rulers disbelieved, they need only do as he had done: venture out into the poisoned wilderness which was the world and see for certain that the hand of the Lord no longer lay upon the Earth. And Sebastian spoke of the horrors which awaited those who refused to heed the Word, for new gods had truly come to dwell upon the Earth, monstrous gods who were patiently waiting for the moment when the last of the Lord’s obedient children would depart and then would descend upon those who had refused to follow and would surely destroy them. Hearing these words, the rulers of Rome—men of painted flesh who wore bright splendid robes and sat upon thrones of gold and ivory—laughed and asked why the Word should be sent to such a barren and soulless being when, with the flick of an eye, the truth might be spoken to any of the wisest ones of all. Sebastian replied, saying the ways of the Lord were mysterious indeed but that he, Sebastian, had truly been chosen. Yet the rulers of Rome would not listen and drove Sebastian from the walls of their city with whips made from fire and he came again to wander a long and empty road.
Setting his pen upon the desk, the robot Andrew carefully read the words he had just written. Then, lifting the pen, he deleted two words and added a brief phrase. Again, he read and, satisfied, shook the parchment softly in the air and placed it upon the stack of pages that represented the work of two lifetimes—both his own and that of an old robot known as Jupiter. Although the words and phrases were Andrew’s, the
story itself was not—he had heard the tale for the first time some fifty years ago from Jupiter, who had claimed to have lived in the time of Sebastian hundreds of centuries ago. Andrew did not necessarily accept this, but what he did believe—and most faithfully—was the strength and grace of his own words. The Book of Man, he had determined to call it, hoping, when it was done—and his most optimistic estimate placed the finished manuscript some twenty years in the future—that the book would be the equal of the Holy Bible. And, unlike that other volume, The Book of Man would contain neither fiction nor parable; Andrew knew that every scene he described had actually happened.
Andrew sat at his desk in the small cottage he occupied outside the walls of the papal castle. He came here most evenings to think and write, first illuminating the darker recesses of memory, calling up the original tale from where it lay hidden, and then performing the necessary mental embellishments—always of style, never of content—before finally setting pen to parchment. A small fire burned in a tiny brick fireplace. There was a worn oil painting—a clown—upon the mantelpiece. His chair and desk were the only furniture.
Now he stood, preparing to extinguish the fire and return to the castle, but before he could move, the cottage door was suddenly thrust open and a young robot stood upon the threshold. Andrew could not recall his name.
“What do you want here?” Andrew demanded, for the robots were forbidden to disturb him while he was working.
“Sir,” the robot said eagerly, “it is Don Julian.”
The Shrine of Sebastian. “So?”
“He comes.”
“What? Not here?”
“Yes. He has appeared through the castle gates and is presently running this way.”
“Is something chasing him?” Andrew asked, genuinely astonished. In more than fifty years Don Julian had never left the castle walls. Before the young robot could answer his last question, Andrew said, “Tend my fire,” and went to the door. Peering out, he saw, dimly, in the near darkness of early evening, the short, squat figure of Don Julian dashing across the flat ground. With a sigh, Andrew ran outside to meet the man, wondering if possibly he might have suddenly gone mad. But when he reached Don Julian, he saw nothing in the man’s appearance or manner to justify his anxiety. Don Julian was not mad; he was terrified.
“Well,” said Andrew, placing a hand upon Don Julian’s chest. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“She’s dead!” Don Julian cried.
“So soon?” Andrew asked, calmly.
“Say you’ll come to her room and see. I—I’m afraid to go there alone.”
“You haven’t gone in?”
“I—” He peered frightfully about. “Just say you’ll come.”
“I’ll come,” Andrew said, hurrying away immediately. Don Julian sprang in pursuit, struggling to match the robot’s long, loping strides. As they moved through the open gates of the castle, Don Julian clutched at Andrew’s arm.
“She’s not breathing. I held a mirror against her lips and she’s not.”
“And her skin?” asked Andrew. “Is it cold?”
“Like ice.”
“And her color?”
“Pale. Ghastly.”
“Then she’s dead,” said Andrew, striding ahead once more. Throwing his hands in the air, Don Julian collapsed in a graceless heap, his dark robes billowing up to conceal his face. Andrew stopped and stared up the high chiseled stone steps which led to Donna Maria’s bedchamber. At any moment, he expected to see her appear on the balcony, to hear her powerful, echoing voice.
But nothing came. Perhaps she was indeed dead.
At last, his face ashen, Don Julian stood, smoothing his garments. “I apologize, Andrew. But you don’t know the whole awful story. Do come. Please.”
They went up the staircase.
“Did you care so much for her?” Andrew asked.
“Only because she was my wife and the pope, and I do believe and—” He stopped again, clutching the robot. “She’s a monster, Andrew. From the other side of death, she has placed a monstrous curse upon my innocent head.”
“You mean she’s named you pope,” said Andrew, freeing himself from the other’s grasp and thrusting open the heavy door.
“How did you know?”
“She told me. Last night.” A single bright lantern illuminated the cloistered chamber, casting a heavy light across the bed where the massive covered form of the woman lay. Crossing himself with a moist fingertip, Don Julian tiptoed into the room after Andrew.
Andrew turned and said, “She’s dead, all right.”
“I knew it,” said Julian. Once again, he fell to the floor and wept.
This time Andrew forced him back to his feet. He shook Don Julian and slapped him—once, twice—across the face. “Now tell me,” he said.
“This,” cried Don Julian, suddenly producing a sheet of wrinkled parchment and waving it over his head like a battle flag. “Here it is. The curse of that monster. As surely as if she rose this moment and uttered the words through her own dead lips. Read, Andrew. Here . . . read.”
Taking the parchment, Andrew read the scrawled words. “So you’re Pope Julian.” He handed the document back to the man.
“But didn’t you read the rest? She wants to be buried at the Shrine of Sebastian. The shrine of the anti-Christ and, worse than that, she demands that I carry her there.”
“If you don’t want to go, don’t.”
“But she was the pope. I can’t refuse her dying wish.”
“Why not?” said Andrew, waiting for the words he knew were coming.
“I—I’m sorry,” said Don Julian. “But I just can’t do it alone. Andrew, you’ll have to come with me. I know you’ve been there before.”
“I’m too busy,” Andrew said.
“Then,” Don Julian whispered, “then, I order you.”
Reaching out with a flat steel hand, Andrew slapped the little man soundly on the back. “That’s the way to do it,” he cried. “You’re going to make your church a magnificent pope.”
And, without a backward glance, Andrew went away.
Don Julian followed hastily.
Andrew speaking:
I suppose it was a good fifty years ago when Pope Leo, the senile, called me into his chambers, where in his later years he would sit twenty hours a day upon a huge throne made from pure gold and decorated with sparkling diamonds and emeralds, perched up there on top like a stuffed bird in his black suit. When the old pope died, Donna Maria sold the throne to a passing merchant, but this particular day, Leo waved a fat hand at me and pointed to a tiny figure nearly hidden beneath the folds of a nun’s habit.
“This new nun isn’t working out,” he told me. “The others won’t have a thing to do with her.”
“Perhaps she’s ill,” I said, going over to inspect the nun. It was obvious that the little one, who was trembling and shaking worse than a leaf in a storm, had never seen a robot so close before.
“Who chose her?” I asked.
“I did myself,” Leo said. “A fortnight past, I ventured into the village.”
“Why her?”
“I found her looks soothing. She confessed a deep and abiding faith, a rarity in these times. Surely, you are not daring to question my judgment.”
“Of course not. But I believe I can find work for her where she won’t come into contact with the other nuns. That ought to solve the problem. I assume you don’t wish to lose her services.”
“A splendid solution,” Pope Leo said. “Frankly, Andrew, you amaze me constantly.”
I accepted his commendations with a bow. As soon as I managed to get the little nun out of the room, I spoke quickly and softly: “Don’t ever let on to him. He’s crazy and senile but hates to look like a fool.”
“But I can’t-”
“You’d better. I know what you are, the other nuns know what you are, but if you don’t tell, we won’t.”
He remained a nun for five more years, until Leo died. “The little nun,” we robots called him, euphemistically. Later, Sister Julia became Don Julian upon his marriage to Donna Maria, who had been designated pope in Leo’s last will. But, strangely, this transformation did not seem to change matters much. He was still the little nun—habit or no habit.
Some things never change.
(July 23-August 22): LEO
The child born under this sign will exhibit the fiery characteristics of the lion. He is one born to lead—strong, powerful, capable, proud, dignified, though somewhat given to brief fits of unnecessary presumption. Courage comes simply to him, bravery is sheer second nature, but foolishness is also a frequent temptation. The ruling planet of this sign is the Sun; like that flaming orb, the child of Leo will burn forever brightly in the firmament of the heavens.
No, thought Don Julian, shutting the book with a sigh. It still didn’t fit. Strangely, he had hoped that upon assuming the papacy, his personality might change to fit the characteristics of his birth sign. But it had been three days now and nothing had happened. Once again, he could only wonder about the accuracy of the present calendar, revised some hundred years ago by Pope Leo. Was it possible that Leo had managed to get the months in the wrong locations, so that astrological predictions were no longer valid?