“We were very lucky,” Paul Nordenskjöld had said to Jerome. “Not one man was lost in the operation—but things would have been very different if the Prince had been in possession of his faculties.”
Nordenskjöld, spokesman for the dozen men and women who were also on the flight south, had maintained a discreet distance most of the time, allowing Jerome to rest and adjust to the new circumstances. The news of Belzor’s death had brought him a pang of relief—only then could he admit to himself that he had fully expected to die at the hands of the alien superman—but there had been no consequent happiness or peace of mind. The erasure of his fears about Belzor had opened the floodgate for all his pent-up apprehensions about the immediate and long-term future.
The lenticular opal on his finger was an aesthetically pleasing object; the story of the Dorrinian people and their dream was one of epic grandeur and courage; the word “reincarnation’ was charged with ethereal and spiritual connotations—but underlying all the lofty abstractions were realities of a different order. Realities such as four thousand diseased corpses. Jerome was on his way to a strange rendezvous with those corpses, bringing them the gift of life. But what sort of life was it going to be? The Dorrinians believed their infant statelet would quickly win acceptance among the nations of Earth, but Jerome could see nuclear augmentations of the aurora australis. In a world where mutilation and death were common penalties for incorrect skin pigmentation, what were the prospects for an alien sept whose origins reeked of every death taboo known to mankind?
Furthermore, what were his personal prospects? What was the outlook for a spindly giant, crushed by a body weight two-and-a-half times its norm, willing conscript of the undead, traitor to every man, woman and child on Earth?
How can all this have happened to me? Jerome had asked himself the question more than once during the flight. A major calamity should be the outcome of a major mistake, but all I did was stop off at an ordinary suburban house in Whiteford on my way to work.
If only I had driven on by…
“We’ll be landing in about ten minutes.” Nordenskjöld said, rousing Jerome from his uneasy drowsing. He was a swarthy man whose tight-curled black hair and Italianate features were ill-matched with his Nordic name. His burgundy necktie, like those of the other men, bore the CC symbol of CryoCare.
“Thank you.” Jerome levered himself upright with difficulty and glanced at the time display on the walnut panelling of the executive suite he was occupying. It said 14.08.
“We have dropped about twenty minutes behind schedule because we were forced to make a wide detour around Santiago,” Nordenskjöld explained. “The city was hit by a tactical nuclear weapon two days ago, and the Chileans are firing at everything they see.”
“It’s so good to be back.” Jerome looked at the quilted snowsuit which Nordenskjöld was offering him and thought about having to venture into the polar coldness. “Before you cram me into that thing, may I try the brandy again?”
“Of course.” Nordenskjöld went to a cocktail cabinet and returned with a glass of brandy. Jerome, who had rarely drunk alcohol in his old incarnation, had impulsively ordered brandy earlier in the flight. He had been hoping to find some hint of comfort in the warmth of the drink, but his Dorrinian senses had revolted at the taste. This time the reaction was less severe and he was able to get three sips down before his stomach gave a tentative heave. He handed the glass back, grateful for the glow which was kindling inside him, and struggled into the duvet garment with Nordenskjöld’s aid.
“Hey, am I going on some kind of expedition?” he said as another man brought him thick-soled thermal boots.
“You will only have to walk a short distance from a personnel transporter to the entrance of the Cryodome, but the temperature is in the region of minus thirty at the moment,” Nordenskjöld said. “And it’s almost as cold inside the dome.”
“I see,” Jerome said, filled with a sudden desperate yearning to have done with everything that was cold and inhuman, alien and unnatural. “Exactly what is going to happen when I go in there? Will I have to look at thousands of dead bodies?”
“I can’t discuss these things with you.”
“But I’m the Bearer of the Thabbren.”
“You’re not a Guardian.”
“Well, whatever’s going to happen, I hope it’s over soon. I just want to get it over with.” As though triggered by Jerome’s words, the seat belt warning signs began to glow. A faint rumbling sound accompanied by a momentary tilting sensation told him the aircraft had spread its metal plumage to the full for a landing. He looked out of the nearest window and experienced a déjà vu sensation as he saw a scene almost identical to his first glimpse of North Dakota. The entire world seemed to be made of trackless snowfields, frozen in perpetual twilight. A minute later the aircraft touched down on a strip of heated mesh and gradually came to a halt with a roar of reverse thrusting engines. Nordenskjöld and the others remained immobile in their seats until the turbines had given their last dying wail and the warning lights were extinguished.
No point in rushing things at the last minute, Jerome thought. Not after a wait of three-and-a-half thousand years.
He tried to imagine what was going through the Dorrinians’ minds as they moved stolidly and silently about the aircraft, adjusting snowsuits and gloves, collecting belongings from lockers, behaving much like commuters at the end of a routine flight. The task was impossible, he realized. Only a devout Christian who had actually observed the Second Coming could have an inkling of what these minutes meant to these ordinary looking men and women who had made the awesome mental leap between worlds in the furtherance of a dream.
Jerome felt compelled to be silent as the passenger exit was opened and stairs were put in place from below. He stood up and found that the hours of rest during the flight had made little difference to his physical incapacity. His head rolled grotesquely and his knees tended to buckle with every plodding step, as though he had been weighted down with many sandbags. He was breathing heavily by the time he got out on to the small platform at the head of the stair.
“I don’t want to be carried,” he said to Nordenskjöld as several men steadied him with solicitous hands.
“I quite understand.” Nordenskjöld nodded gravely. “It would also be better for us if the Bearer of the Thabbren arrived with dignity.”
“So be it.” Holding his breath to lessen the pain the gelid air was inflicting on his nostrils, Jerome fixed his eyes on the nearest of the track-laying vehicles which were waiting beside the plane and made his way to it. He tried to step up into its passenger compartment unaided, but his legs were simply unable to raise his body the short distance against the implacable pull of the planet. Others, seemingly gifted with Herculean power, half-lifted him and guided him into a seat. Only Nordenskjöld joined him in the compartment. There was a moment’s delay while the rest of the party boarded the other vehicles, then the little convoy moved off in the direction of distant blue-white lights.