“The horoscope does not specify species,” Groton murmured. What was he getting into?
The Horven continued to wear the helmet, but Groton was sure it was simultaneously setting about preparations for the other transfer. “There are still horoscopes in your time?”
“Still? You mean you practice astrology here?”
“That depends on what you mean by the term. I don’t know enough about your conception either to believe or disbelieve in it, let alone practice it. If you would clarify—”
“It — I—” Groton found himself at a loss for words, never having anticipated this turn of conversation. He finally had to settle for a concrete example, his well-versed summaries having fled his mind. “Well, I was born on October 11, 1940, at Key West, Florida. That means — but you don’t know Earth chronology or geography!”
“I comprehend your meaning, nevertheless. Go on.”
“The time was 4:10 p.m., Eastern Standard. That’s important for the house structure. So the configuration of the signs and planets at that moment — well, I’m a Libra personality, sun in the seventh house, moon in Aquarius, Mercury—”
“If you will provide an exact listing, I will transpose to my framework,” the Horven said. “I perceive that your astrology does approximate one of our disciplines, but of course your local viewpoint does not coincide.”
“You can convert my terms to your chart?” This was as marvelous an accomplishment as any he had witnessed here.
“We Horven specialize in orderly intellectualization. One of the tools we have developed is a unified-orientation conception of horoscopy that enables us to apply the details of any local system in the galaxy to our own framework. A precise interpolation would take much time, of course, since we have to compensate in your case for a sizable time differential, but we can certainly make a crude alignment now.”
For the next hour they compared notes, oblivious to all else except for the Horven’s continued helmet-transaction. It needed no chart on which to post information, keeping complete data in its head.
“My tentative plotting indicates that you will enter a new cycle of experience at a life duration of about forty-two of your years,” the Horven remarked at last.
“Mine also,” Groton said. “My sun passes out of Scorpio at that point.” He stopped. “Ouch! That’s now!”
“Of course, since you are coming with us.”
Very neat. “But my wife—”
“Provide me her configuration, and we shall see how she fits into this picture.”
Groton did so, though he felt increasingly uneasy about it. This being, this representative of a mature species, was frighteningly intelligent in obscure ways.
“I am sorry,” the Horven said then. “This is not an aspect that would normally be evidenced in your more limited framework; but mine is, if I may say so without giving offense, somewhat more advanced. Your wife is dead.”
The words struck with a physical impact. “But—”
“Your astrology cannot pinpoint such an event specifically, but ours can. Even after making due allowance for error introduced in transposition, the probability is virtually conclusive. Her skein terminates abruptly.”
Groton remained stunned, not yet ready to believe it “How — when — ?”
“On that I cannot yet provide exact details, but can say that there were ironic elements. She perished as the result of her own decision, in an effort to do what she believed was proper. She was mistaken, but it was a noble demise. As for when — in this framework, approximately ninety-eight million years ago. In yours — ten minutes.”
“I must go back to her!”
The Horven removed the helmet. “It is better that you do not.”
Groton looked into the indefinite countenance and knew with terrible certainty that truth had emerged. The life he had known was over; his return could only wreak havoc. He was committed to a new existence — alone.
The mellow music of the bassoon welled up as he explored the final triad. Ivo saw his resources falling away. The horn had failed him after all; it had departed, never to return. Only one hope remained — yet in this concurrency, it was impossible for him to affect its theme.
On the ground stood a fair young woman. She cast a smile at him as though it were a handful of soil, seeking to assimilate him into her world, but he passed her by. Next was a massive bull stroking the sod with its hoof, epitome of power yet not aggressive. Last was the goat: a gentle doe, horned and bearded after the nature of her kind, and with a fine udder. Surely the symbol had been of a virile male-goat, a buck, most indefatigable of animals! Perhaps it was, elsewhere; but this was what he saw, and he would not deny it.
She contemplated him, the gaze of one eye suggesting DISCRIMINATION, and the gaze of the other — and he paused to verify this, taken aback — LOVE. He stood before Capricorn, responding to the bleat of the bassoon and the ambience of earth, and could not speak.
She said: “Music is love in search of a word.”
Then he saw behind her, written upon an erosion-ragged mountain cliff, as it were a palimpsest:
There was some initial difficulty emplacing the suppressors — popularly known as “destroyers” — as many immature cultures were unable to appreciate the long-range purpose of these devices. The mission was nevertheless accomplished. Although galactic communications were necessarily inhibited during the Second Siege, civilization itself suffered stasis instead of abolition.
In fifteen to twenty thousand years the fields of the several destroyers overlapped each other, and crews were dispatched to place their defenses on standby. As more time passed, these units became repositories for galactic artifacts, and even assumed museum-status. As individual species came of age and thus were immune to the interference signal, they tended to visit the stations, and sometimes to leave examples of their own cultures for display. No untended immatures were able to visit the stations, because of the nature of the broadcasts, so selectivity was no problem.
The Second Siege, like the First, endured about a million years. This time civilization rebounded almost immediately, no worlds having been ravaged or cultures destroyed by other than natural means.
The destroyer network was considered to be only a holding action, not a solution. The major thrust was of a different nature. The first concerted extragalactic exploration was undertaken, and entire civilized planets made the jump into deep space. Chief among the advanced species participating were the Ngslo, the Horven and the Dooon. Their objective was the realization of the true nature of the Traveler and its reason for being. They departed — and did not return.
The ultimate nature of the Traveler was not discovered until the Third Civilization picked up reports from the surviving explorers, many millions of light-years removed. The truth, as brought out by the dispatch from Horv, was remarkable, and it changed the entire complexion of galactic intercourse.
Afra felt the impetus shoving her into an alternate existence. She felt the compulsion of the music, the fascination of galactic history, so much more vast than anything she had studied before. There was a period of timelessness, of drifting to melody; then the surroundings firmed and she was standing in—
A supermarket.
Ahead of her was an aisle bordered by towering promontories of canned goods: on one side beans — lima, pinto, kidney, navy, great northern, vegetarian, pork , black-eyed peas. On the other side, other vegetables — potatoes, canned sliced white; corn, whole kernel; corn, cream-style; tomatoes, stewed; peas, baby; peas, dried; beets, cut. To one side beyond the near islands were the fresh vegetable bins, leafy green, round red, puffy white. To the other side was the main portion of the store, neat hanging signposts identifying the aisles; there were pyramidding displays of canned fruit juice, boxed powdered milk, cartoned cigarettes, bagged charcoal and the eleventh volume of a cheap coupon-encyclopedia.