The words were simple, but the aura was compelling. Only one other person had ever affected Flint so strongly, though in a different way. That was the Shaman. This Pnotl, who claimed to be an alien creature, was far from being repulsive; he was magnetic, almost godlike.
“I don’t know what it is about you—”
“It is my Kirlian aura,” Pnotl said, and Flint had a vision of a hand radiating like a galaxy: yes, there was something of that in this creature’s touch. “It is eighty times as intense as the sentient norm. I feel it in you, too, most strongly.”
“I don’t know what you jokers are up to,” the man at the desk snapped. “But either sign up for Vega or get out of my office.”
Vega suddenly seemed to be so close as to be negligible, compared to the reaches of far-distant Spheres. Flint glanced at the deskman curiously. “He doesn’t feel it.”
“Only those who possess it feel it, as a rule,” Pnotl explained, guiding him outside onto the plain of the spaceport. A small hovercraft rested there. “You have not before been aware of your gift.”
“The Ministers—”
“Unaware.”
“But they told me—”
“Their machines give them readings, their computers give them readouts. They think by their analysis of holographic photographs of the Kirlian aura they understand what is important. They reduce it to statistics. But in themselves, they are unaware, as is an entity who has never experienced love.”
“They’re blind,” Flint said, amazed.
“Blind, deaf, senseless. Yet they do what they must.”
“Why don’t you revolt me? I am an alienophobe, and I can’t stand illness—”
“The intense Kirlian aura does not reflect sickness, but health. It is a function of extreme vitality. It transcends the individual, even the species. Some call it the soul.”
“And I, myself, have—”
“Self does not exist. There is no true individual consciousness. We are all vessels of a larger force, all aspects of the flame of life. Only the ramifications of our separate environments and experience provide the illusion of distinction. The Kirlian aura is all, and it meticulously reflects the influence of the physical and mental vessels we occupy. Through it we share the universe. We are the universe.”
Flint was awed. The Regent had said much the same thing, but from Pnotl it had the force of conviction. “My mind does not understand, but I have to believe. You are—my kind.”
“I am your kind. We two are Kirlian entities. But your aura is more than twice the intensity of mine. You may be the most potent aura in the galaxy. You must go out into that galaxy, not merely to preserve it from external threat, but to seek your own level. You will not find your like among your physical kind.”
“You’re telling me I have to transfer,” Flint said.
“It is the only way. For you and your Sphere and our galaxy.”
Once more Flint visualized the hand like the galaxy. The two were really the same, aspects of the Kirlian cosmos. “Exactly what is my mission?”
“You must bring the secret of Kirlian transfer to the other Spheres of this cluster, this galactic segment. You are best equipped to do this, for though the Kirlian aura is the essence of the communal Self, it associates with its original vessel and fades relentlessly when removed from that vessel. Every day that passes in transfer reduces the intensity of the aura by approximately one sentient norm, so that ordinary entities cannot retain their original identities in transfer. Those with more intense auras can, their limits defined by the potency of those auras. I can remain in transfer up to eighty Earth-days. You can do it for up to two hundred days. That is what makes you crucial to our effort. You can accomplish more, with a far greater margin of safety.”
“Yes.” It was obvious, now. “What’s this about the galaxy being destroyed?”
“Come with me and I shall explain.”
And Flint went with the alien, committed.
3. Keel of the Ship
*alarm priority development*
—summon council available entities linked thought transfer immediate—
COUNCIL INITIATED PARTICIPATING*—::
—only one additional entity? why do we bother! proceed—
*new transfer entity object galaxy potent*
—specific data?—
*scale approximately 200 intensity motion 60 parsecs mid-rim segment*
:: 200 intensity! surely misreading? ::
—review prior manifestations for entity ::—
*recent transfer 80 intensity motion 1500 parsecs from known sphere knyfh to object region formerly undeveloped*
:: call 200 undeveloped?! ::
—indication emissary from established transfer culture successful promoting subsidiary transfer activity recruited extraordinary potency now extreme threat priority target initiate action promptly—
:: indication noted call for concurrence ::
CONCURRENCE
:: nature of proposed action summon agent highest expertise matching alien entity scale dispatch earliest opportunity destination transfer recipient station target galaxy mission destroy 200 intensity threat entity ::
*contraindication no available agent scale 200*
:: solution preempt top agent from lesser mission we do have a 200 intensity agent? ::
*one*
—::CONCURRENCE::—
—stipulation concealment of agent mandatory—
:: modification of concurrence mission destroy 200 intensity threat only in manner concealing motive and origin ::
—*CONCURRENCE*—
:: signoff ::
—*POWER CIVILIZATION CONCURRENCE*—
The transfer was instant and painless. One moment Flint was standing in the lab; the next he was hanging from chains in the blistering sun, looking out over a field of ripening burl berries.
He also had a complete new mindful of information; too much to assimilate all at once. His life experiences had suddenly been doubled, but only his Kirlian identity fell into place readily. He was still Flint of Outworld, pressed into Sol Sphere service; he was also—who? With concentration, it came: Øro of N*kr, Slave laborer in the local burl plantation. Not much to choose between these two identities!
It took time to work out further details, but he had time. He hung alone, untended. The steady dull pain was distracting, but the need to ascertain his situation overrode it. Øro had been a laborer—until he committed the infraction of balking at performing illicit overtime during the Slave holiday. An apologetic petition would have brought nominal punishment and probably redress, for the schedule had been an oversight. But an overt balk was quite another matter. So the holiday labor had been confirmed, to the grief of all the Slaves, and Øro had been chained and tortured until his mind snapped. No, not his mind; his soul.
Flint felt dizzy and nauseous, and not entirely because of this just-relived history. He was from a frontier himself; pain and death did not appall him unduly. It was the alien perspective that sickened him. He had come here, at least in part, in quest of high-Kirlian entities like himself—and here he was in an un-Kirlian body in the throes of torture. Øro’s entire life was available for his inspection; all he had to do was work for it. But the effort filled him with disgust. He had to ease off, to get his bearings slowly, to become acclimatized not only to Øro’s situation but to the fact that strong, free Flint was weak and chained. It had to be done a little at a time, or his own mind would crack, his own soul fade.
Øro’s mind had died only recently, his personality at last giving up the ghost (literally), for the memories carried through the increasing distress until this very morning. This was a fresh body and brain—probably the freshest on the planet, attracting Flint’s aura the way a high point attracted a bolt of lightning.