Gormon, the other member of our little band, had appeared and stood jauntily beside me. He was grinning, amused at my distress, but I could not feel angry with him. One does not show anger at a guildless person no matter what the provocation.
Tightly, with effort, I said, “Did you spend your time rewardingly?”
“Very. Where’s Avluela?”
I pointed heavenward. Gormon nodded.
“What have you found?” I asked.
“That this city is definitely Roum.”
“There never was doubt of that.”
“For me there was. But now I have proof.”
“Yes?”
“In the overpocket. Look!”
From his tunic he drew his overpocket, set it on the pavement beside me, and expanded it so that he could insert his hands into its mouth. Grunting a little, he began to pull something heavy from the pouch—something of white stone—a long marble column, I now saw, fluted, pocked with age.
“From a temple of Imperial Roum!” Gormon exulted.
“You shouldn’t have taken that.”
“Wait!” he cried, and reached into the overpocket once more. He took from it a handful of circular metal plaques and scattered them jingling at my feet. “Coins! Money! Look at them, Watcher! The faces of the Caesars!”
“Of whom?”
“The ancient rulers. Don’t you know your history of past cycles?”
I peered at him curiously. “You claim to have no guild, Gormon. Could it be you are a Rememberer and are concealing it from me?”
“Look at my face, Watcher. Could I belong to any guild? Would a Changeling be taken?”
“True enough,” I said, eyeing the golden hue of him, the thick waxen skin, the red-pupiled eyes, the jagged mouth. Gormon had been weaned on teratogenetic drugs; he was a monster, handsome in his way, but a monster nevertheless, a Changeling, outside the laws and customs of man as they are practiced in the Third Cycle of civilization. And there is no guild of Changelings.
“There’s more,” Gormon said. The overpocket was infinitely capacious; the contents of a world, if need be, could be stuffed into its shriveled gray maw, and still it would be no longer than a man’s hand. Gormon took from it bits of machinery, reading spools, an angular thing of brown metal that might have been an ancient tool, three squares of shining glass, five slips of paper—paper!—and a host of other relics of antiquity. “See?” he said. “A fruitful stroll, Watcher! And not just random booty. Everything recorded, everything labeled, stratum, estimated age, position when in situ. Here we have many thousands of years of Roum.”
“Should you have taken these things?” I asked doubtfully.
“Why not? Who is to miss them? Who of this cycle cares for the past?”
“The Rememberers.”
“They don’t need solid objects to help them do their work.”
“Why do you want these things, though?”
“The past interests me, Watcher. In my guildless way I have my scholarly pursuits. Is that wrong? May not even a monstrosity seek knowledge?”
“Certainly, certainly. Seek what you wish. Fulfill yourself in your own way. This is Roum. At dawn we enter. I hope to find employment here.”
“You may have difficulties.”
“How so?”
“There are many Watchers already in Roum, no doubt There will be little need for your services.”
“I’ll seek the favor of the Prince of Roum,” I said.
“The Prince of Roum is a hard and cold and cruel man.”
“You know of him?”
Gormon shrugged. “Somewhat.” He began to stuff his artifacts back in the overpocket. “Take your chances with him, Watcher. What other choice do you have?”
“None,” I said, and Gormon laughed, and I did not.
He busied himself with his ransacked loot of the past. I found myself deeply depressed by his words. He seemed so sure of himself in an uncertain world, this guildless one, this mutated monster, this man of inhuman look; how could he be so cool, so casual? He lived without concern for calamity and mocked those who admitted to fear. Gormon had been traveling with us for nine days, now, since we had met him in the ancient city beneath the volcano to the south by the edge of the sea. I had not suggested that he join us; he had invited himself along, and at Avluela’s bidding I accepted. The roads are dark and cold at this time of year, and dangerous beasts of many species abound, and an old man journeying with a girl might well consider taking with him a brawny one like Gormon. Yet there were times I wished he had not come with us, and this was one.
Slowly I walked back to my equipment.
Gormon said, as though first realizing it, “Did I interrupt you at your Watching?”
I said mildly, “You did.”
“Sorry. Go and start again. I’ll leave you in peace.” And he gave me his dazzling lopsided smile, so full of charm that it took the curse off the easy arrogance of his words.
I touched the knobs, made contact with the nodes, monitored the dials. But I did not enter Watchfulness, for I remained aware of Gormon’s presence and fearful that he would break into my concentration once again at a painful moment, despite his promise. At length I looked away from the apparatus. Gormon stood at the far side of the road, craning his neck for some sight of Avluela. The moment I turned to him he became aware of me.
“Something wrong, Watcher?”
“No. The moment’s not propitious for my work. I’ll wait.”
“Tell me,” he said. “When Earth’s enemies really do come from the stars, will your machines let you know it?”
“I trust they will.”
“And then?”
“Then I notify the Defenders.”
“After which your life’s work is over?”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Why a whole guild of you, though? Why not one master center where the Watch is kept? Why a bunch of itinerant Watchers drifting from place to place?”
“The more vectors of detection,” I said, “the greater the chance of early awareness of the invasion.”
“Then an individual Watcher might well turn his machines on and not see anything, with an invader already here.”
“It could happen. And so we practice redundancy.”
“You carry it to an extreme, I sometimes think.” Gormon laughed. “Do you actually believe an invasion is coming?”
“I do,” I said stiffly. “Else my life was a waste.”
“And why should the star people want Earth? What do we have here besides the remnants of old empires? What would they do with miserable Roum? With Perris? With Jorslem? Rotting cities! Idiot princes! Come, Watcher, admit it: the invasion’s a myth, and you go through meaningless motions four times a day. Eh?”
“It is my craft and my science to Watch. It is yours to jeer. Each of us to our speciality, Gormon.”
“Forgive me,” he said with mock humility. “Go, then, and Watch.”
“I shall.”
Angrily I turned back to my cabinet of instruments, determined now to ignore any interruption, no matter how brutal. The stars were out; I gazed at the glowing constellations, and automatically my mind registered the many worlds. Let us Watch, I thought. Let us keep our vigil despite the mockers.
I entered full Watchfulness.
I clung to the grips and permitted the surge of power to rush through me. I cast my mind to the heavens and searched for hostile entities. What ecstasy! What incredible splendor! I who had never left this small planet roved the black spaces of the void, glided from star to burning star, saw the planets spinning like tops. Faces stared back at me as I journeyed, some without eyes, some with many eyes, all the complexity of the many-peopled galaxy accessible to me. I spied out possible concentrations of inimicable force. I inspected drilling-grounds and military encampments. I sought, as I had sought four times daily for all my adult life, for the invaders who had been promised us, the conquerors who at the end of days were destined to seize our tattered world.