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Authors: John Brunner
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move the corpse as he would, Kazan could have no part in it.
Yet, he was still aware. He could remember things, foggily, as he had remembered that he knew Hego. He had no sense of discontinuity except the break between the moment when he was seized by the thing in the black water, and the moment he realized he had been flung on to a patch of soft mud beside the lake, and aside from his bruises and the sickness the foul water had brought on him was unhurt. He could even remember the click which he had felt rather than heard when the vast cruel beak made its first stab at him and severed the steel cuffs linking his wrists. He could even remember that the end of the beak was rough, and had rasped the skin of his back, and torn a hole in his fine black shirt with the silver piping, so that afterwards the thermostatic circuitry did not work.
Or perhaps the water had put it out of action.
Was he Kazan, saved by a combination of miracles? Or was he the puppet of a black being with eyes like coals?
“Who are you, Kazan?”
That fresh-faced girl insisting that he answer—he could hate her for voicing the question, he could pound her to a sack of bones in blue-bruised skin because he had wished to do that to Bryda and her sneering lover, the prince. He had come from the shore of the lake driven by only that lasting hatred out of all the many desires which once had motivated him as Kazan. He had been cheated, as they informed him much later.
Some of that part was blurred, too. Could the break have come there? No, for when he set his mind to it and concentrated he knew there was, in fact, no break.
Only his mind flinched away from some of the happenings at that time. The memories blended and ran into each other, like wet colors laid too closely side by side. The burning of the Dyasthala, the laying low of the buildings with crackling violence, and the people swarming out like insects from a disturbed nest—was it then that he had suffered the beating? Or was that when he went hunting for Bryda and Luth, and they took him for a madman and wanted to put him in a hospital, misled by his fine clothes into thinking he was one of the haughty? Then, the quality of what he wore showed despite the soaking in the filthy lake. Later he was dressed as he had been for most of his life—in rags. And a stink of himself.
Part of that picture ran off in its turn into a vision of the fine big room, and himself in front of the mirror, admiring garments he had demanded as the price of doing—what? No one could believe that he, Kazan, had carved steps out of the air and brought Prince Luth down them from prison. Not even Kazan could believe that. The devil did it. Using the body named Kazan. The vision of the mirror and himself so smartly clothed ran into a blurred picture of his rags and dirt, sometimes before his encounter with Bryda and the conjurer, sometimes after, at the time when he went with the rest to join the gray line on the gray concrete under the gray sky because in some obscure manner he had understood that this was a means of escape.
And last of all the vision of himself changed to a black, ill-defined shape which gazed into the mirror with eyes like dying coals.
That was the point where he started to scream.
Unnerved by the suddenness of his tortured cry, Clary leapt back from his side, upsetting the stool on which she had been sitting. Her face going pale, she listened and watched for as long as she could endure it. Some of the things that poured out made her mouth work and forced her to close her eyes for long seconds together.
Then, when she could stand no more, she hurled herself at the door and clawed it open. She fled incontinently down the corridor.
At the barrier between the crew’s quarters and those of the worker-cargo, she hammered till a spaceman came in answer. Seeing her, he immediately made to slam the barrier into place again; a worker had no business bothering the crew. He just had time to regret so
Yet, he was still aware. He could remember things, foggily, as he had remembered that he knew Hego. He had no sense of discontinuity except the break between the moment when he was seized by the thing in the black water, and the moment he realized he had been flung on to a patch of soft mud beside the lake, and aside from his bruises and the sickness the foul water had brought on him was unhurt. He could even remember the click which he had felt rather than heard when the vast cruel beak made its first stab at him and severed the steel cuffs linking his wrists. He could even remember that the end of the beak was rough, and had rasped the skin of his back, and torn a hole in his fine black shirt with the silver piping, so that afterwards the thermostatic circuitry did not work.
Or perhaps the water had put it out of action.
Was he Kazan, saved by a combination of miracles? Or was he the puppet of a black being with eyes like coals?
“Who are you, Kazan?”
That fresh-faced girl insisting that he answer—he could hate her for voicing the question, he could pound her to a sack of bones in blue-bruised skin because he had wished to do that to Bryda and her sneering lover, the prince. He had come from the shore of the lake driven by only that lasting hatred out of all the many desires which once had motivated him as Kazan. He had been cheated, as they informed him much later.
Some of that part was blurred, too. Could the break have come there? No, for when he set his mind to it and concentrated he knew there was, in fact, no break.
Only his mind flinched away from some of the happenings at that time. The memories blended and ran into each other, like wet colors laid too closely side by side. The burning of the Dyasthala, the laying low of the buildings with crackling violence, and the people swarming out like insects from a disturbed nest—was it then that he had suffered the beating? Or was that when he went hunting for Bryda and Luth, and they took him for a madman and wanted to put him in a hospital, misled by his fine clothes into thinking he was one of the haughty? Then, the quality of what he wore showed despite the soaking in the filthy lake. Later he was dressed as he had been for most of his life—in rags. And a stink of himself.
Part of that picture ran off in its turn into a vision of the fine big room, and himself in front of the mirror, admiring garments he had demanded as the price of doing—what? No one could believe that he, Kazan, had carved steps out of the air and brought Prince Luth down them from prison. Not even Kazan could believe that. The devil did it. Using the body named Kazan. The vision of the mirror and himself so smartly clothed ran into a blurred picture of his rags and dirt, sometimes before his encounter with Bryda and the conjurer, sometimes after, at the time when he went with the rest to join the gray line on the gray concrete under the gray sky because in some obscure manner he had understood that this was a means of escape.
And last of all the vision of himself changed to a black, ill-defined shape which gazed into the mirror with eyes like dying coals.
That was the point where he started to scream.
Unnerved by the suddenness of his tortured cry, Clary leapt back from his side, upsetting the stool on which she had been sitting. Her face going pale, she listened and watched for as long as she could endure it. Some of the things that poured out made her mouth work and forced her to close her eyes for long seconds together.
Then, when she could stand no more, she hurled herself at the door and clawed it open. She fled incontinently down the corridor.
At the barrier between the crew’s quarters and those of the worker-cargo, she hammered till a spaceman came in answer. Seeing her, he immediately made to slam the barrier into place again; a worker had no business bothering the crew. He just had time to regret so
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