But he could not do it now.
I am impure, he realized. So they send me nothing. By what I have done I’ve lost the capacity to accept and even to see. Will I never see the God-Above-God again? he asked himself. Has it all ended?
My punishment, he thought.
But I don’t deserve it. Susie wasn’t that important. She was demented; the stone left her in revulsion. That was it; the stone was pure and she was impure. But still, he thought, it’s awful that she’s dead. Brightness, mobility and light—Susie had all three. But it was a broken, fractured light which she gave off. A light which scorched and injured… me, for example. It was wrong for me. What I did I did in self-defense. It’s obvious.
“The Sword,” he said. “The Sword-wrath of Chemosh. Let it come to me.” He rocked back and forth, reached up once again into the awesomeness above him. His hand groped, disappeared; he watched it as it vanished. His fingers fumbled in empty space, a million miles into the emptiness, the hollowness above man… he continued to grope on and on, and then, abruptly, his fingers touched something.
Touched… but did not grasp.
I swear, he said to himself, that if I am given the Sword I will use it. I will avenge her death.
Again he touched but did not grasp. I know it is there, he thought; I can feel it with my fingers. “Give it to me!” he said aloud. “I swear that I’ll use it!” He waited, and then, into his empty hand, was placed something hard, heavy and cold.
The Sword. He held it.
He drew the Sword downward, carefully. God-like, it blazed with heat and light; it filled the room with its authority. He at once leaped up, almost dropping the Sword. I have it now, he said to himself joyfully. He ran to the door of the room, the Sword wobbling in his meager grip. Pushing open the door he emerged in the midday light; gazing around he said, “Where are you, mighty Form Destroyer, you decayer of life? Come and fight with me!”
A shape moved clumsily, slowly along the porch. A bent shape which crept blindly, as if accustomed to the darkness within the Earth. It looked up at him with filmed-over gray eyes; he saw and understood the shirt of dust which clung to it… dust trickled silently down its bent body and drifted into the air. And it left a fine trail of dust as it moved.
It was badly decayed. Yellowed, wrinkled skin covered its brittle bones. Its cheeks were sunken and it had no teeth. The Form Destroyer hobbled forward, seeing him; as it hobbled it wheezed to itself and squeaked a few wretched words. Now its dry-skin hand groped for him and it rasped, “Hey there, Tony. Hey there. How are you?”
“Are you coming to meet me?” he said.
“Yes,” it gasped, and came a step closer. He smelled it, now; mixture of fungus-breath and the rot of centuries. It did not have long to live. Plucking at him it cackled; saliva ran down its chin and dripped onto the floor. It tried to wipe the saliva away with the crust-like back of its hand, but could not. “I want you—” it started to say, and then he stuck the Sword of Chemosh into its paunchy, soft middle.
Handfuls of worms, white pulpy worms, oozed out of it as he withdrew the Sword. Again it laughed its dry cackle; it stood there swaying, one arm and hand groping for him… he stepped back and looked away as the worms grew in a pile before it. It had no blood: it was a sack of corruption and nothing more.
It sank down onto one knee, still cackling. Then, in a kind of convulsion, it clawed at its hair. Between its grasping fingers strands of long, lusterless hair appeared; it tore the hair from itself, then held it in his direction, as if it meant to give him something priceless.
He stabbed it again. Now it lay, sightlessly; its eyes gummed over entirely and its mouth fell open.
From its mouth a single furry organism, like an inordinately large spider, crawled. He stepped on it and, under his foot, it lay mashed into oblivion.
I have killed the Form Destroyer, he said.
From far off, on the other side of the compound, a voice carried to him. “Tony!” A shape came running. At first he could not tell who or what it was; he shielded his eyes from the sun and strained to see.
Glen Belsnor. Running as fast as he could.
“I killed the Form Destroyer,” Tony said as Belsnor dashed up onto the porch, his chest heaving. “See?” He pointed, with his Sword, at the crippled shape lying between them; it had drawn up its legs and entered, at the moment of its death, a fetal position.
“That’s Bert Kosler!” Belsnor shouted, panting for breath. “You killed an old man!”
“No,” he said, and looked down. He saw Bert Kosler, the settlement’s custodian, lying there. “He fell into the possession of the Form Destroyer,” he said, but he did not believe it—he saw what he had done, knew what he had done. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll ask the God-Above-God to bring him back.” He turned and ran into his room; locking the door he stood there shaking. Nausea flung itself up into his throat; he gagged, blinked… deep pains filled his stomach and he had to bend over, groaning with pain. The Sword fell heavily from him, onto the floor; its clank frightened him and he retreated a few steps, leaving it to lie there.
“Open the door!” Glen Belsnor yelled from outside.
“No,” he said, and his teeth chattered; terrible cold dashed through his arms and legs; the cold knotted itself into the nausea in his stomach, and the pains became greater.
At the door a terrible crash sounded; the door hesitated and creaked, then abruptly threw itself open.
Glen Belsnor stood there, gray-haired and grim, holding a military pistol pointed directly into the room. Directly at Tony Dunkelwelt.
Bending, Tony Dunkelwelt reached to pick up the Sword.
“Don’t,” Glen Belsnor said, “or I’ll kill you.”
His hand closed over the handle of the Sword.
Glen Belsnor fired at him. Point blank.
10
As the raft drifted downstream, Ned Russell stood staring off in the distance, cloaked by his own thoughts.
“What are you looking for?” Seth Morley asked him.
Russell pointed. “There, I see one.” He turned to Maggie. “Isn’t that one of them?”
“Yes,” she said. “The Grand Tench. Or else one almost as large as he.”
“What kind of questions have you asked them?” Russell said.
Showing surprise, Maggie said. “We don’t ask them anything; we have no way of communicating with them—they don’t have a language or vocal organs insofar as we can determine.”
“Telepathically?” Russell said.
“They’re not telepathic,” Wade Frazer said. “And neither are we. All they do is print duplicates of objects… which puddle in a few days.”
“They can be communicated with,” Russell said. “Let’s steer this raft over into the shallows; I want to consult with your tench.” He slid from the raft, into the water. “All of you get off and help me guide it.” He seemed determined; his face was relatively firm. So, one by one, they slid into the water, leaving only B .J. ‘s silent body aboard the raft.
In a matter of minutes they had pushed the raft up against the grass-covered shore. They moored it firmly—by shoving it deep into the gray mud—and then crawled up onto the bank.
The cube of gelatinous mass towered over them as they approached it. The sunlight danced in a multitude of flecks, as if caught within it. The interior of the organism glowed with activity.
It’s bigger than I expected, Seth Morley said to himself. It looks—ageless. How long do they live? he wondered.
“You put articles in front of it,” Ignatz Thugg said, “and it pushes a hunk of itself out, and then that hunk forms into a duplicate. Here, I’ll show you.” He tossed his wet wristwatch onto the ground before the tench. “Duplicate that, you jello,” he said.
The gelatin undulated, and presently, as Thugg had predicted, a section of it oozed out to come to rest beside the watch. The color of the production altered; it became silver-like. And then it flattened. Design appeared in the silver substance. Several more minutes passed, as if the tench were resting, and then all at once the excreted product sank into the shape of a leather-bound disk. It looked exactly like the true watch beside it… or rather almost exactly, Seth Morley noted. It was not as bright; it had a dulled quality. But—it was still basically a success.