"Oh, Frit," Viktor said, despairing, "how can I make you understand? What could be grander than answering the question of what happened to the entire universe? Maybe Balit can discover that! He's interested. He's smart. He simply doesn't have the education. First he needs a grasp of cosmology and nuclear decay and-"

"No one knows those things anymore, Viktor. Truly. They simply aren't interesting to us."

"But they must be on record somewhere," Viktor said, clutching at straws. "I know the data banks in Ark Ark and and Mayflower Mayflower had all that material-" had all that material-"

"They don't exist anymore, Viktor. What was left of them must have been salvaged for structural materials thousands of years ago."

"But they were copied onto the files on Newmanhome."

Frit gave Forta a meaningful look. "Yes, Newmanhome," he said.

Forta sighed. For some reason the thought of the files on Newmanhome seemed to make him uncomfortable. "Well," he said, "we'll see what we can do."

"I hope I can repay you," Viktor said.

Forta gave him a strange look. "That's all right," he said, sounding insincere. Then, "Do you know a lot of stories like the Big Bang one you were telling Balit?"

"Oh, dozens," Viktor told him, aware for the first time that the parents had been listening in. In fact he did. In fact he had all the stories his father had told him still well in mind-the story of the carbon-nitrogen-oxygen cycle that fueled the stars, the story of the death of ma.s.sive stars in supernovae and the birth of pulsars and black holes, the stories of Kepler's Laws of Motion and of Newton's, and of Einstein's superseding laws, and of the rules of quantum mechanics that went beyond even Einstein.

"Yes, of course," Forta said, yawning. "Those are very interesting. I know Balit loves to hear about them-"

"But not all the time, please, Viktor," Frit finished. "If you don't mind."

Then the long-awaited transmission came in from Newmanhome, and it was not at all what Viktor had expected.

To begin with, of course it wasn't Pelly calling-the s.p.a.ce captain had to be halfway back to Nergal by now. The face on the screen was a man wearing a sort of floppy beret, pulled down almost to his eyebrows; he was a habitat person, all right, but he was actually wearing clothes. "Viktor," he began without preamble, "I'm Markety. I'm just here for a short time, but I've managed to collect some of the material for you. Give my respects to Forta, please-he is one of my heroes, as I am sure he knows. Here's the material."

Eagerly Viktor watched the screen on the desk as new pictures began to appear. Puzzledly he stared at them. After months he knew what sort of thing the desk produced when interrogated; these were quite different. They were simply a series of-well, photographs! The first batch was pictures of bits and pieces of machinery, some of it the same s.h.i.+ny lavender metal as the keepsake Balit proudly kept by his bedside, some of unidentifiable materials that could have been steel or gla.s.s or ceramic. It dawned on Viktor that they were the odds and ends that had been salvaged from the surface of the planet Nebo-but there was no explanation for any of them, no hint of what they might be for, or what studies might have been made of them.

The next batch was more puzzling still.

It had to do with astrophysics, all right, but it was not data displayed from a computer file. It was pictures-pictures of pages of ma.n.u.script, or log books, or even a few pages from a book here and there. They seemed to have been taken from the freezers.

They were all fragmentary-a couple of pages of something, without beginning or end; the pages themselves as like as not torn or frayed or spotted into illegibility. Some of them made Viktor blink. Some of it went so far back that his father's own observations were there.

For a while at least, someone had been faithful at keeping records. (Billy Stockbridge, perhaps, loyal to Pal Sorricaine to the last?) There were spectrograms of the sun as it cooled; of the star burst as it grew; of the dozen stars that still remained in their sky-dimmer than before, but not swallowed into the star burst.

None of them were anything like the spectrograms Pal Sorricaine had so doggedly gleaned of the stars that had flared and died all about them. The Sorricaine-Mtiga objects were still unique.

None of the spectrograms made any sense to Viktor, either. The dead observers had left their own speculations, but none of them was convincing. None of them explained what it was that had stolen most of the stars out of the sky. And they were all so very old that there was nothing at all about the fireball that had dominated the sky for so long.

When Balit came back from school Viktor was still puzzling over the transmission. He displayed it all over again for Balit, but repet.i.tion didn't make it clearer. Balit didn't do any homework that night. He and Viktor ate quickly and returned to the desk. It was the objects from Nebo that seemed most fascinating to the boy. "But what can they be?" he asked, not for the first time, and, not for the first time, Viktor shook his head.

"The only way to find out is to investigate them. Somebody made them, after all-somebody from Gold, or somewhere else, but still some person. person. They can be opened up." They can be opened up."

Balit s.h.i.+vered. "People did try, Viktor. More than twenty of them were killed." killed."

"People die for a lot less important reasons," Viktor said roughly. "Naturally it would have to be done with a lot of precautions. Systematically. The way people used to defuse bombs in wars.

"What are 'wars,' Viktor?"

But Viktor refused to be sidetracked. They pored over the material until it was late and Balit, yawning, said, "I don't know if I understand, Viktor. Are our stars the only ones still alive, anywhere?"

"That's the way it looks, Balit."

"But stars live forever, forever, Viktor," the boy said drowsily. Viktor," the boy said drowsily.

"Not forever. For a long time-" Viktor stopped, remembering a joke. He laughed as he got ready to tell it. "There used to be a story about that, Balit. A student is asking his astronomy teacher a question: 'Pardon me, professor, but when did you say the sun would turn into a red giant and burn us all up?'

"The professor says, 'In about five billion years.'

"So the student says, 'Oh, thank G.o.d! I thought you said five million.' million.' " "

But Balit didn't laugh. He was sleeping. And as Viktor carried the boy to his bed, he wasn't laughing, either.

Viktor sought out the one of Balit's parents at home. He found Frit painting something on a large screen. "I'm sorry I kept him so late. We got to talking about why all these things had happened-"

"Where you go wrong, Viktor," Frit told him serenely, "is in always asking why. There doesn't have to be a why. You don't have to understand things; it's enough to feel." feel."

Viktor looked uncomprehendingly at the designs Frit was painting on the screen. The screen, he saw, was flimsy, it would be transferred to the wall of the room that would some day be Ginga's. It was a wall poem. He laughed. "So I shouldn't try to understand why you're doing that? When Ginga isn't even born, and won't be able to read for years yet?"

"No, Viktor, that is very easy to understand," Frit said indulgently. "When Ginga learns to read I want her first words to come from her father. No," he went on, brus.h.i.+ng in another character in a chartreuse flourish and looking critically at the result, "it is this obsession of yours for understanding the sky that worries me. It upsets Balit, I'm afraid. What's the use of it? The sky is the sky, Viktor. It has nothing to do with our lives."

"But you've written poems about the sky!"

"Ah, but that is art art. I write poems about what people feel feel about the sky. No one can experience the sky, Viktor; one can only look at it and see it as an object of art." He shook his wooly head in reproof. "All these things you tell to Balit-hydrogen atoms fusing into helium, suns exploding and dying-there's no about the sky. No one can experience the sky, Viktor; one can only look at it and see it as an object of art." He shook his wooly head in reproof. "All these things you tell to Balit-hydrogen atoms fusing into helium, suns exploding and dying-there's no feeling feeling there. They're just horrid mechanical things." there. They're just horrid mechanical things."

In spite of himself, Viktor was amused. "Aren't you even curious?"

"About stars? Not at all! About the human heart, of course."

"But science-" Viktor stopped, shaking his head. "I don't see how you can talk that way, Frit. Don't you want to know things? Don't you want to have Balit understand science?" He waved an arm around the future nursery. "If it weren't for science, how could you and Forta have had a child?"

"Ah, but that's useful useful science, Viktor! That's worth knowing about-not like your worrying about whose lines are where in which spectra. It's good because it makes our lives better. But I'm not at all curious about why stars s.h.i.+ne and what makes them hot-and least of all about where they've all gone-because there's nothing anyone can do about it anyway. Is there?" science, Viktor! That's worth knowing about-not like your worrying about whose lines are where in which spectra. It's good because it makes our lives better. But I'm not at all curious about why stars s.h.i.+ne and what makes them hot-and least of all about where they've all gone-because there's nothing anyone can do about it anyway. Is there?"

By the time word came that Pelly was back in the habitats Viktor was beginning to feel as though he had seriously out-stayed his welcome on Moon Mary. Balit was still loyal. Frit was unfailingly polite. Forta, at least, had a use for their guest; he borrowed Viktor for an hour or so almost every day to dance with him. Forta appreciated it, and for Viktor it seemed good exercise for his nearly healed leg, though Frit did not seem to approve. Viktor heard them talking, not quite out of earshot, and Frit was being reasonable. "Folk dancing? Oh, yes, Forta dear, but what is folk dancing, after all? It's simply what primitive people used to do when they didn't have professionals to watch. But you are an artist!"

"And you," Forta told him good-humoredly, "are a little jealous, aren't you?"

"Of course not! On the other hand, dear . . ."

And the rest of the conversation Viktor could not hear, which was probably just as well.

Viktor was leading Forta through the familiar, sweet Misirlou when the package arrived from Pelly. Viktor opened it with excitement-something from Nebo for him to study, something more informative than the broken bits and pieces like Balit's keepsake?

It was not from Nebo. It was human-made and very old. Pelly's message said, "This appears to have come from one of your old s.h.i.+ps, Viktor. I thought you'd like to listen to it."

The last time Viktor had seen that object was on old Ark, Ark, just before the fatal attempt at landing a team of investigators. It was, in fact, just before the fatal attempt at landing a team of investigators. It was, in fact, Ark's Ark's own black-box recording log. own black-box recording log.

It even still worked-more or less; someone had been repairing it, somewhere along the line, and much of the material was erased, much more so deteriorated in sound quality that Viktor could hardly make it out. But there was one tiny section that was loud and clear-and the voice that was speaking on the log was one Viktor knew well.

Jake Lundy. It was the voice of Viktor's rival speaking from the grave.

When Balit came in, an hour later, he found Viktor sitting over the log, listening once again to the voice of his long-dead rival. ". . . have now been in this s.h.i.+p for fifty-seven days," it was saying, the voice weak and cracking. "I can't hold out much longer. The others are dead, and I guess-"

That was all that was still intelligible.

Balit put his arm around Viktor in compa.s.sion. He listened to the tape with Viktor, then listened again. "I know how you feel, Viktor," he declared. "It must be awful, hearing your friend's voice when he's been dead for thousands of years."

Viktor looked at him without expression.

"Jake Lundy wasn't a friend," he said.

"Then why-"

But Viktor could not answer, because he couldn't find words to tell the boy how the voice of Reesa's long-dead lover had suddenly started a hopeless longing for the long-dead Reesa herself.

That night, dancing Misirlou again with Forta, Viktor found himself near to weeping.

"Is something wrong?" Forta asked worriedly. Viktor just shook his head and went on with the dance. When Frit came in, looking faintly jealous at the sight of Viktor holding Forta, he said, "Listen, something's come up. I've been talking to Nrina. She thinks we should come to visit her-look at the sketches and talk to her about Ginga."

The princ.i.p.al thought in Viktor's mind was that he was not, just then, ready to resume his affair with the woman who had brought him back to life.

When they reached Nrina's habitat she was there to greet them, proudly exclaiming over Balit's now blemishless forehead. "No brand! Oh, and you'll be making love first chance you get now, won't you?"

"Of course," Balit said sedately. Then Nrina whisked them off to her laboratory-all but Viktor. Viktor was not involved in the planning of the new baby. He was given the freedom of her quarters to wait for her pleasure instead.

It was a long wait. Then, when she did arrive, her words were not of love. For the first time in Viktor's experience of her, Nrina looked angry. "Do you know how much it cost cost Frit and Forta to dig up all those old records for you?" Frit and Forta to dig up all those old records for you?"

He was taken aback. "They didn't say anything about the cost," he protested.

"Of course not. You were their guest."

Viktor said doggedly, "I'm really sorry, Nrina, but how was I to know it cost so much money? n.o.body ever said anything to me."

"Said what it what it cost? cost? Oh, Viktor! Did you really think that two sensitive, artistic, decent people like Frit and Forta would say anything so Oh, Viktor! Did you really think that two sensitive, artistic, decent people like Frit and Forta would say anything so vulgar?" vulgar?"

"I'm sorry," he grumbled. And then, defensively, he said, "What does it matter? You people are closing your eyes to what's really important-what's happening to the universe."

He stopped, surrendering because he could see that she was looking at him with resigned incomprehension. She said, obviously trying to be reasonable, "But Viktor, you said yourself all these things were zillions of miles away and they took millions of years to happen. How can you call them 'important'?"

He ground his teeth. "Knowledge is important!" he barked. It was an article of faith.

Unfortunately, Nrina was not of his religion. She took a turn or two around the room, looking at him in bafflement.

Viktor did not like the feeling that he had committed a terrible social blunder. "I could get a job and pay them back," he offered.

"The kind of job you could get, Viktor," she said with a sigh, "would not pay them back in twenty years. What can you do?" She hesitated, then plunged in. "Viktor? Who are Marie, Claude, Reesa, and Mom?"

"What?"

"They are names you used to say. When you were feverish from freezer burn," she explained. "Sometimes you called me Marie and Claude, sometimes Reesa. And just at the beginning I think you said 'Mom.' Were these women you loved?"

He was flus.h.i.+ng. "One was my mother," he said gruffly. "Marie-Claude and Reesa-yes."

"I believed it was that." She sighed, twirling a lock of his hair in her slim fingers. Then she looked at him seriously. "Viktor," she said, "I could design a woman like you if you wished. I could make one from your own genes, as I did with Balit for Forta and Frit. Or, if you can describe this Reesa and this Marie-Claude, I could make one like them. Or with the best qualities of both; if you wish. She would be physically of your kind, not as tall and slim as we are. Of course," she added compa.s.sionately, "it would take time. The embryo must gestate, the child grow-twenty years, perhaps, before she would be of mating age . . ."

He looked at her with a sudden shock. "What are you telling me?" he demanded. "Do you want to stop our, uh, our-"

She let him flounder without an ending to the sentence. When it was clear he couldn't find one, she shook her head affectionately. "Come to bed," she ordered. "It's late."

He obeyed, of course. And when they had made love, and Viktor rolled over to get some sleep, it seemed that it was only minutes before Nrina was poking at him.

It must have been later than he thought, because she was fully dressed, gauzy work robe over her cache-s.e.x, hair pinned up out of the way. "Get up, Viktor," she ordered.

He craned his neck to blink at her. "What? Why?" It wasn't uncommon for Nrina to have to get up early to work, but she didn't usually insist on his own rising.

She looked serious. "I want you to go to Newmanhome with Pelly," she told him.

He gaped at her. "Newmanhome?"

"He is leaving tomorrow," she said.

Viktor rubbed his eyes. He was having trouble taking in what she had said. "Are you angry because of the money?" he asked plaintively.

"No. Yes, but that isn't why. It is simply time for it to be over, that's all."

"But-but-"

"Oh, Viktor," she sighed. "Why are you being so difficult? You didn't think I would pair with you permanently, permanently, did you?" did you?"

Pelly's s.h.i.+p was as impressive inside as out-only a chemical rocket, to be sure, but a huge one. Viktor was impressed all over again at the richness of a society that could afford to build such vast, sophisticated machines for so little purpose.

To Viktor's surprise, Frit, Forta, and Balit turned up at the launching, Forta and Frit almost weeping as they kissed their son. It looked exactly like a farewell. "Balit!" Viktor cried. "What is this?"

"I'm coming with you," the boy said simply. Incredulous, Viktor turned toward the parents-and recoiled from the anger in their eyes.

"Yes, he is going to join you, Viktor," Frit said bitterly. "We have discussed it all night, but Balit insists. He is freed now; how can we stop him? But I cannot forgive you, Viktor, for putting these ideas in his head."

CHAPTER 27.

In the middle of that feebly expiring universe, Wan-To suddenly felt almost young again. There was still nuclear fusion going on somewhere!