I checked them all, looking for signs of drugged sleep, and didn't suspect anything. I found out how to douse some of the lamps. Each was different, none seemed to work by electricity. I left one glowing-it was a goose-necked thing with a bright painted-paper shade-and walked out of the room, nearly tripping over Liam's leg sticking out over the edge of a low couch.
There wasn't much else to do. There wasn't any reading matter about, or none that I recognized as such. I hadn't thought to bring a deck of cards.
Somehow I found myself in a room I hadn't seen before, and this one had a terrace and a view.
And what a view.
Here was Microcosmos at sunset spread out magnificently to world-rim, kilometer after kilometer of it in swatches of varying color and texture. The sky was blue ink to the "east," an explosion of orange and fleshy red in the "west," sun-disk just now slipping below the infinite horizon, moving very quickly. I watched as night fell faster than it could on any other world. It was like a door slamming shut. The sun slid under the flat plane of the world, and bang, it was night. The stars came on like beacons, wheeling in their crystal spheres. The land was dark. No. Here and there a stray light. Inhabitants? Automated lighting? No telling. I watched the heavens turn for a while, thinking.
I yawned. This was going to be rough. I really needed to stretch out and get eight hours.
A night chill began to seep into my joints, and I walked back inside, noticing a slight but abrupt temperature shift as I did so. The room was still warm. Must be some sort of barrier to keep out the cold. There was no apparent way to seal the room from the outside.
Ten minutes later I realized that I was lost, and I couldn't figure out for the life of me how that had happened. I couldn't find our suite. I ran through a series of sparsely and oddly furnished rooms, then came to an area occupied by more artifacts. I called out. No answer. I hadn't gone up or down stairs, I still had to be on the same floor. I ran around, and all I did was get more disoriented.
I found a room with a lone bed in it. It was little more than a spongy mattress raised a few centimeters off the floor. I sat on it and crossed my legs. How had I gotten so lost so quickly? Well, Prime had warned us. What was I going to do?
Prime had said he would call on us in three hours. How much time had passed? He'd be around sooner or later. Maybe.
I was a little worried. But there was nothing to be done. We were at Prime's mercy, if he wished us ill. Remote possibility that Moore and his men were about. But they'd probably be as lost as I was if they were stumbling around the castle. If they were here, Prime had them quartered somewhere. They'd probably stay put.
No. There was nothing to do but lie down. The room was bare and dark, stray light leaking from the hallway. Silence. An alien, whispering silence. I could hear my heart beat, feel blood pounding through me. A sense of being unimaginably fat away from home overcame me. How long had I been away? A few months, actually. It felt like eons.
God, I was tired. Yes, we've established that. Go to sleep.
The dreaming began… It was like this:
There were dark suns and burnt-out suns, suns that had collapsed, exhausted, after eons of fierce life. The universe was old, dying. It was cold between the cinders and cold between the still-burning stars. The warm dust clouds that had once given birth to new suns had long ago spawned the last of their progeny. The galaxies were far apart now, still flying outward from the ancient burst of energy that had sent them on their way. Still gradually slowing down from that initial impetus, they would never completely stop. Time would never really have a stop. Time would go on until it simply didn't matter any longer.
The universe wheezed and sighed. It was growing old. The heat-death was upon it, and there was no hope.
On a planet of a sun that had shriveled to a cold white pinpoint in the sky-a planet that was a construct composed of the reprocessed material of most of what had been its solar system-a meeting took place. The date had been set four thousand years in advance. The meeting commenced on time.
It was contended that something should be done to give a rounded graceful finish to the grand story, the Universal Drama. Surely it was not in accord with esthetic principles to let the tale simply peter out. There was a need for a proper ending. What had all the struggle been for? To what purpose? Why had a thousand billion races evolved, developed, matured, withered, and died. For what end?
There was this reply: Why can it not end as it surely willby itself, when there is no more to tell, at its proper time? The rejoinder: There is no more to tell, yet it has not ended. The universe is exhausted, and hobbles on its useless way to oblivion. There is no race living that lacks the will to continue the quest. It is commonly accepted that everything that can be done, and is worth doing, has been done, that everything knowable and worth knowing is already known. Came this riposte: But those deeds and truths are ends in themselves. You spoke of the achievements of many races…. One day those achievements will be dust. The very particles of which that dust is composed will decay, fly apart into random noise…
And so? There will be no one about to mourn….
It need not be so. There exists a possibility that something new may be achieved, something totally revolutionary. There is the potential that this thing will survive even the death of the physical universe….
Can this be?
Yes. It is possible.
We will take your word for it. Granted that it is a possibility, there is no need for it. Again, we wish to speak of the attainments of past epochs. Look:
Towers of transparent metal so high that spacecraft docked at their tops, once, billions of years ago… the Crystal Towers of Zydokzind still stand…
So, too, stand the Works of the race with the name that means Shining Consequence. None know what these Works are or what they mean, but they populate a vast black plain and are as various as they are beautiful. Some are structures, some are mechanisms, some are the remnants of acts or events. Most are indescribable. The Works must be seen and felt and experienced. Many have traveled to the planet of the Shining Consequence to do these things…
Immediately after the first singing of the Great Glad Song of the race of the Dreaming Sea of Ninn, the song was repeated, note-for-note, by the poet's nearest neighbor, who thought it the most beautiful thing ever heard. The song was taken up by another, and was passed along from individual to individual around the planet. The Great Glad Song was sung continuously for thirteen million years, each generation learning it, passing it on, never allowing a lapse in the chain of perpetual repetition. The last survivor of the race died singing it. Hear it now…
In a globular cluster of a galaxy called Wafer there exists a religion which undergoes constant theological transformation. The pantheon of gods constantly shifts; old deities are deposed and new ones installed on an almost daily basis. The body of canonical dogma is vast and complex. The rituals and ceremonies which this religion prescribes are beautiful and compelling. There are only fourteen living adherents to this religion. Their faith is adamantine. There never have been more than thirty-six practitioners living at any one time in this sect's 400,000-year history…
There was once a race that spent most of its resources in devising a means by which a star may be moved. This they learned how to do, and did. They rearranged some of the constellations seen from their home planet. How this was done is unknown. The motive was not religious or superstitious in nature, but derived chiefly from esthetic concerns…
Enough. There is more.