I kicked off the ground, sailing toward the communication station next to the access tube that used to lead to the starship. Tadders managed to turn around without killing herself and she flew there alongside me.

A sizable crowd had already gathered by the time we arrived.

"What does the message say?" I asked the person closest to the computer monitor.

He looked at me in irritation; the ancient computer had displayed the text, naturally enough, in the ancient script, and few besides me could understand it. He moved aside and I consulted the screen, reading aloud for the benefit of everyone.

"It says, 'Greetings! We have arrived safely at Dirt."'

The crowd broke into 'cheers and applause. I couldn't help reading ahead a bit while waiting for them to quiet down, so I was already misty-eyed when I continued. "It goes on to say,'Tell Rodal and Delar that they have a grandson. We've named him Madar."'

My wife had pa.s.sed on some time ago-but she would have been delighted at the choice of Madar; that had been her father's name.

"'Dirt is beautiful, full of plants and huge bodies of water,"' I read. "'And there are other human beings living here. It seems those people interested in technology moved to the Dyson sphere, but a small group who preferred a pastoral lifestyle stayed on the home world. We're mastering their language-it's deviated a fair bit from the one in the ancient texts-and are al- ready great friends with ~ "Amazing," said Doe Tadders.

I smiled at her, wiped my eyes, then went on: "'We will send much more infonnation later, but we can clear up at least one enduring mystery right now."' I smiled as I read the next part. "'Chickens can't fly here. Apparently, just because you have wings doesn't mean you were meant to fly.~ That was the end of the message. I looked up at the dark sky, wishing I could make out Sol, or any star. "And just because you don't have wings," I said, thinking of my son and his wife and my grandchild, far, far away, "doesn't mean you weren't."

CHAUNA.

by Alan Dean Foster

Alan Dean Foster was born in New York City and raised in Los Angeles. He has a Bachelor's degree in Political Science and a Master of Fine Arts in Cinema from UCLA. He has traveled extensively around the world, from Australia to Papua, New Guinea. He has also written fiction in just about every genre, and is known for his excellent movie novelizations. Currently,he lives in Prescott, Arizona, with his wife, a.s.sorted dogs, cats, fish, javelina, and other animals, where he is working on several new novels and media projects.

"Mr. Bastrop, we're looking for something that doesn't exist."

Slowly, painfully, Gibeon Bastrop lifted his gaze to meet that of the master of the Seraphim. It was a gaze that had once strnck those upon whom it had fallen with awe or fear, envy or unbounded admiration, or a host of other strong emotions. Nowadays, it most often inspired only pity. Inwardly, Gibeon Bastrop raged. He could only do so inwardly. It had been nearly two decades since he had been physically capable of expressing extremes of emotion.

He was not even sure how much of him was the original Gibeon Bastrop anymore. So many parts had been replaced: cloned, regrown from his own reluctant tissues, or where necessary, replaced with synthetics. The brain was still all Gibeon Bastrop, he felt, though even there the physicians and engineers had been forced to tweak and adjust and modify to keep every- thing functioning properly. They were very good at their work. Gibeon Bastrop could afford the best. If you couldn't, you were unlikely to live to be one hundred and sixty-two-next April, Bastrop mused. Or was it May?

"Mr. Bastrop?"

"What?" It was Tyrone, badgering him again. Always wanting to give up, that Tyrone.

Give up, turn around (although they were so far out now that "around" no longer had any real meaning), and go home. A fine Shipmaster, Tyrone, but easily discouraged. How long had they been searching now? Barely two years, wasn't it? The youth of today had no patience, Bastrop reflected. None at all. Why, Tyrone was barely in his eighties: far too young to be complaining about time. Let him reach triple digits; these days, you had to earn the right to complain.

"Mr. Bastrop." Contrary to the owner's belief, the Shipmaster possessed considerable patience. He was exercising some of it now. "The Chauna doesn't exist. It's bad enough to take us chasing after a fairy story- but an alien faliy story?"

"It is not a fairy story." Gibeon Bastrop might no longer be capable of raging, but he could still be adamant. "The Cosocagglia are insistent on that point."Shipmaster Tyrone sighed. Outside, beyond the great convex port that fronted on Gibeon Bastrop's ornate stateroom, stars and nebulae gleamed in other-than-light profusion. There wasn't a one among them the Shipmaster recognized, and he had been journeying among the starways for more than haff a century. The Old Man was taking them farther and farther into the void, closer and closer to Nowhere.

"The Cosocagglia are an ancient species existing in a state of advanced decline. Now if the Vuudd, or even the redoubtable Paquinq, had vouchsafed the existence of the mythical Chauna, I would be more inclined to grant the remote possibility of its existence." He smiled in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. "But the Cosocagglia?"

Gibeon Bastrop's voice dropped to a mutter. He was tired, even more so than usual. "The Cosocagglia were a great race."

"Once." Tyrone was no longer in any mood to coddle his employer. Like the rest of the crew, he had been too long away from home, was too much in need of blue skies and unrecycled air. "That was tens of thousands of years ago." He sniffed scornfully. "They no longer even go into s.p.a.ce. They have forgotten how, and travel between worlds only when they can book or beg pa.s.sage on a ship of one of the younger species, like the Helappo or ourselves. They have hundreds of legends from those days. The Chauna is just one of many.~~ He felt sorry for the Old Man, marooned in his motile, no longer able to stand erect even with the aid of neurorganetics. For a hundred years, the name of Gibeon Bastrop had been one to be reckoned with throughout the sapient portion of the galaxy. Inventor, engineer, industrialist, megamogul; his influence and his fame were known even on nonhuman worlds. Now he was a shadow of the self he had been: mentally slow, weak at advanced cogitation, unable to survive more than a few days at a time without an immoderate amount of medical attention. The provisions and personnel he had brought with him on the Seraphim would have equipped a hospital big enough to serve a good-sized conutbation. It was all for him. Everything and everyone on the ship existed to keep Gibeon Bastrop happy and his every need looked after.

What must it be like, the Shipmaster mused, to live out your last days knowing that being the richest human being alive no longer meant anything?

"The Chauna is not a fancy!" Bastrop pounded the arm of his motile with a sudden surge of strength. "The Chauna is real!""Far more so the people on board this ship, sir. They have lives, too. And families, and careers, needs and desires. All of which they have left behind so that you could follow this whim of yours."

'They were paid to allow me to do so."

"Well paid." Tyrone was willing, as always, to concede the obvious. "But I'm afraid that's no longer enough, sir." Taking a step forward, he gestured at the port and the shimmering magnificence of the drivedistorted star field beyond. 'They've been away from home for too long. We're not talking a month or two. Past two years in Void is enough to drive anyone crazy.

The hoverchair hummed softly as Bastrop pivoted to face the sweeping galactic panorama. "I haven't changed-but then, you all thought I was insane when I began this expedition. Why should you think differently of me now?"

The Shipmaster's tone was kindly. Like nearly every other member of the crew, at heart he genuinely liked the Old Man. It was Bastrop's obsession that was hated, not the individual behind it. Nor was great wealth, as it so often is, an issue. Gibeon Bastrop was admired for starting from nothing and acquiring his mammoth fortune through the astute application of ex- ceptional genius and plain hard work.

"We don't think you're crazy. Mr. Bastrop. Just in thrall to an idea."

Gibeon Bastrop looked up at the younger man. "Is that a crime?"

"No, sir," Tyrone replied patiently. "But you must realize that your particular obsession is not shared by your crew. Initial enthusiasm gave way first to tolerance, then to grudging compliance, and most recently to exasperation. I have worked hard to keep it from progressing to the next step." He leaned toward the intricate, elaborate floating chair that not only kept Gibeon Bastrop mobile, but alive. "Word that we have finally struck for home would immediately alleviate any potential problems and eliminate growing tension."

Bastrop nodded tiredly. Even his enfeebled voice, when he finally replied, was one that could still command fleets and minions. "We've come to find the Chauna. We will continue to search until we have done so.,'

'lyrone's lips tightened. His response was devoid of insolence, but finn. "At the risk of voicing a cliche, sir, money can't buy you everything. It can't buy you people."

"No, but it can d.a.m.nwell rent them for me," Bastrop declared confidently.

"It can't buy you a myth."'That still remains to be seen. You are dismissed, Mr. Tyrone."

The Shipmaster nodded tersely and bowed out. Wakoma and Surat were waiting for him on the bridge.

"What did he say?" Surat was small and dynamic, like a puppy perpetually kept on a too- short leash. She was also the finest navigator Tyrone had ever worked with. "Did you make your point?" Her expression was no less eager than Wakoma's.

"I made it." The Shipmaster brushed past them. "And he promptly ignored it. Standby for downslip." He settled into place in front of his bank of readouts. They, at least, would respond to him.

Crestfallen but far from surprised, the two seconds-in-command parted, off to see to their own stations. Tyrone's words meant that more weeks, maybe more months, of pointless wandering lay before them. Like the rest of the crew, they were beyond homesick. If this kept up, the "home" portion of their worsening condition would begin to drop away for real.

"Maybe he'll die." Wakoma struggled to concentrate on his work. Like everyone else on board the Seraphim, he was an exceedingly competent professional.

"Not likely." The tech seated alongside him kept his voice down. 'There's enough advanced medical technology on this ship to allow an amoeba to operate a torkay projector. With the medics' watching his carca.s.s twenty-four-seven, I'll bet the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d's got another ten years left in him."

The ship plunged out of 0Th to emerge in the vicinity of Delta Avinis. It was the forty- third multiple star system the Seraphim had visited since leaving home. According to the elaborate Cosocagglia mythology, the Chauna was only to be encountered in multiple star systems. No one knew why this should be, not even the Cosocagglia themselves. It didn't matter, Tyrone grumbled silently as coordinates were checked and confirmed, because there was no such thing as a Chauna. They might as well be searching single-star systems, or dark wanderers, or the ghostly gray stone spheres known as stuttering molters.

"Something beautiful." That was how the Cosocagglia legends identified the Chauna. A stellar phenomenon that was supposedly unsurpa.s.singly beautiful. That was about all the fable had to say about it, too. Tyrone had seen the translations, laboriously performed by the xenologists who worked with nonhuman species like the Cosocagglia. Where the Chauna were concerned the Cosocagglia could supply reams ofadjectives but nothing in the way of specifics. A Chauna was no more, no less, than a Beautiful Thing.

The phenomena had been encountered but rarely, millennia ago, when the Cosocagglia had been in their prime: a youthful, expansionist, vital race. To see a Chauna, it was said, was to be blessed forever with knowledge of what real beauty was. Any individuals so consecrated by the vision were held up to be the most fortunate of travelers. But for all its supposed wonder, there remained in the crumbled lore of the species not a single description of the Chauna itself.

If that was the case, then how exceptional could it be? Tyrone mused. Even if it existed, it was hardly likely to be a previously un.o.bserved phenomenon. In the course of the past thousand years humankind had identified an enormous range of stellar objects and events, from x-ray bursters to miniature ambling pulsars to Mobius black holes. Some were so esoteric the always busy astrophysicists had not found time to name them. Some were even beautiful, like the tor- nadic nebulae and the gamma-ray ropes. But none, according to the Cosocagglia who had been shown imagings of them, were Chauna.

Delta Avinis was an impressive, but not unprecedentedly so, double star system. There were half a dozen planets, all sere, all lifeless. Their orbits were erratic, their gravitational grip on continued existence uncertain.

As soon as he was confident that downslip was finalized and that the system held no surprises, Tyrone rose from his seat, formally relinquished control of the ship to Wakoma and Surat, and announced that he was going on sleeptime. Two months ago, such announcements by the Shipmaster had been greeted with unified protest. Now people simply muttered to themselves in his absence. Everyone was too tired to demonstrate loudly. Resigned to a seemingly interminable fate, they had not yet decided what to do about it, or what to do next. That eventuality might manifest itself at the next star system, the Shipmaster knew, or the one after that. He would keep things going as long as he could. It was part of his job.

Surat waited for several minutes until she was sure her superior was gone before rising from her position. "I'm going to talk to Gibeon Bastrop."

One of those who served under her looked up in alarm. "Are you sure that's wise, Anna?"

The navigator shrugged slim shoulders. "What can the Old Man do-fire me? I'm not refusing to perform my duties. Maybe later, but not yet. Not today." Such a refusal, they both knew, could result in a Hearing Board denying recompense to the perpetrator. Angry andfrustrated as they were, no one aboard the Seraphim wanted to sacrifice two years' superior pay in order to make a point.

No one challenged Surat as she made her way through the ship toward the Old Man's quarters. The Seraphim was a sizable vessel, with a crew of several dozen. Everyone was too busy or too apathetic to confront her. They knew they had arrived at yet another system. There was no sense of excitement, no joy of discovery. Next week, the procedure would be re peated. As it had been now for more than twenty-four months. As it might be for another.

No one wanted to think about it.

Well, Anna Surat was thinking about it, and she intended to give full voice to her thoughts.

There were guards posted outside Bastrop's quarters. They had been there since Tyrone had mobilized them four months ago, when the first serious rumblings of discontent had begun to make themselves known among the crew. Everyone on board knew that if Gibeon Bastrop died, his crazed quest across the cosmos would die with him, and they could all go home. No one had tried to hurry the process along- yet. Surat knew that they were hoping time and acc.u.mulating infirmities would do for them what none of them could do in person.

She was admitted without having to wait. Depending on his mood and health, Gibeon Bastrop liked company. Long journeys in Void were lonely matters at best.

She found him seated before his dog. At the moment, the obedient sphere was taking dictation. Bastrop pivoted his motile to greet her. As he did so, he essayed the shadow of a smile.

Once, that expression had charmed millions. Now it was all the Old Man could do to induce the muscles in his face to comply with the most basic of physical demands.

"You're looking well today, sir." The polite mantra fooled neither of them.

Bastrop waved the dog away. It drifted off to sulk in a corner, powering down as it did so.

"I'm always up for a visit from an attractive woman, Anna Surat. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

When was the last time he had had a woman, she found herself wondering perversely?

Does he even remember what it was like? So old-he was so old! If not for the dozens of doctors and millions of credits at his beck and call, he would have been dead thirty or forty years ago.

Instead, he had bought himself an extra lifetime. And for what? So he could spend it like this, visibly decomposing in an expensive hospice motile that every month had to take over more andmore of his own failing bodily functions? She resolved never to allow herself to be placed in such a situation. Not that she really needed to woriy about it. She was about a hundred million short of qualifying for that level of health care.

"Mr. Bastrop, I know that Shipmaster Tyrone has been to see you...

At her opening words his expression fell. His voice dropped to a more familiar, aged, raspy whisper. "Oh. That again. I was hoping.. ." His words trailed away.

Hoping what? she wondered. That I came her for the pleasure of your selfish, semi-senile company? She forced herself to smile engagingly, wondering even as she did so if he was capable of responding to such gestires.

"You can't subject us to this any longer, Mr. Bastrop. It isn't reasonable. It isn't fair."

From the depths of memory the parchmentlike substance that covered his face twisted into a semblance of a grin. "The search for beauty is never reasonable or fair, my dear. Being beautiful yourself, you should know that."

d.a.m.n him, she cursed silently. She had determined before entering that nothing the decrepit industrialist said or did was going to affect her. But even the shadow of that smile was capable of sparking something within her. It was no comfort to know that it had done likewise to thousands who had come before her.

"You can't distract me with words, sir."

"Pity." He turned slightly away from her. 'There was a time when I could have done so effortlessly. Long ago, that was."

Feeling sympathy in spite of herself, she advanced to rest a hand on his shoulder. Beneath the synsilk lay very little flesh and much angular bone. She wanted to pull her hand away but did not.

"You are unloved here, sir. I realize you know that, and don't care. I can't change that.

Not even you can change that." Her words came a little faster. "But by turning for home now you can regain their respect! You can conclude this in a way that will be remembered with pride instead of animosity."

He turned back toward her. Not by pivoting the chair this time, but by making an actual physical effort to rotate the upper portion of his remaining body. "And what about you, Anna Surat? Do you hate me for what I've done?"

"No, Mr. Bastrop. I don't hate you. I'm not the hating type. Ijust want to go home. I havea husband, you know. At least, I hope I still have a husband."

"You are a starship navigator. He knew what he was getting into when he married you.

Everyone knows. I've been married myself, so even if you think otherwise, I do understand.

Outlived most of them." He shook his head slowly. "They were all comely, in their own way. But they were not the Chauna."

Surat knew she shouldn't have spoken harshly to her admittedly generous if stubborn employer, but the time for overindulgence was past. "Nothing is the Chauna, Mr. Bastrop! They say that you were once accounted the smartest man in all the civilized worlds. What happened to that person? Did he. ..

"Get senile?" Gibeon Bastrop chuckled. "I don't think so-but then if I was, I wouldn't know it, would I? I don't think the pursuit of ultimate beauty stamps me as mad, Anna. I think it marks me as sane. Saner than most, I should say. Ultimately, what else is there but beauty?

Beauty of discovery, beauty of thought, beauty of soul. It's one thing I've never been able to buy, Navigator. Now it's all I want. The last thing I want. No other human being has seen it. We will be the first."

"Many old myths are very alluring, Mr. Bastrop. Seductive, even. But in the end they're only myths. Isn't the loveliness of legend enough?"

"Maybe the Chauna is a world, Anna Surat. Have you thought of that?" Excitement danced in eyes that had been thrice replaced. "A world so wonderful even the Cosocagglia have no words for it. Can you imagine the reaction such a discovery would produce? A world even more captivating than Earth, empty and waiting for us. Or maybe it's a gas giant with multiple rings that glow like gold in the light of triple suns. But most likely it's something we can't imagine."

"Neither can the Cosocagglia," she responded, "because it doesn't exist. Anything of absolute beauty has to be imaginary, or it ceases to be exceptional and be-comes just one more cataloged item in the always expanding stellar pantheon."

He started to reply, stopped, and began to wheeze softly. She ought to call somebody, she knew. She ought to summon help. Instead, hating herself, she stood and watched, silent and hopeful. No such luck. The hospice motile did things with tubes and probes, and in less than a couple of minutes the Old Man was breathing normally again. Shallow, but normal.'That was uncomfortable." His eyes met hers. "You really think I'm being unreasonable, Anna Surat? To want, after more than a century and a half, this one last thing? To view beauty that no one else has seen?"

Her resolve began to melt. He was working his wiles on her, she knew. A hundred years of practice gives a man certain skills. But she could only be manipulated to a limited degree.

"No, Mr. Bastrop. It's not unreasonable to want such a thing. But it is unreasonable to want to see that which does not exist. If you would only . .

A voice entered the room via an unseen synthetic orifice. "Mr. Gibeon Bastrop. Mr.

Gibeon Bastrop, sir!" She recognized Tyrone's commanding tones. What was he doing awake?

Sleeptime was precious to every crewmember, from the lowliest to the Shipmaster. What had brought him back to alertness? "Are you awake?"

She responded for him. "Yes, he's awake."

"Navigator Surat? What are you. . . ? Never mind. Mr. Bastrop, I'm rotating the Seraphim on its axis. Please look to your port and viewers."

"Why?" The transformation that abruptly overcame the Old Man was astonishing to behold. Suddenly, he looked barely a hundred. "What's happening?"

"Something-we're not sure, sir. An energetic trans.m.u.tation of a level- Berowski and her people are working on an evaluation, but the field changes and fluctuations are The Shipmaster broke off. Perhaps he was too busy to continue. Or perhaps he was simply, like everyone else on board the Seraphim who was at that moment in a position to view the event, too overwhelmed to continue.

The enormous expense of the two-story high port polarized automatically as the twin suns of Delta Avinis revolved into view. Nearby, one of the dead planets that orbited the twin stars took a shadowed, heavily-cratered bite out of the Void. Anna wondered at the Shipmaster's words until the second, lesser sun slowly hove into view. Then she pointed, and her lips moved slowly.