ROMOND: I’ve often thought of those nights in winter by the great fireplace in Jogen. Cold nights, warm hearts, as people say.
He speaks to Shiros respectfully enough but directly and with warmth, and she responds at once with genuine pleasure, her child -self for a moment.
SHIROS: And the stories you told! — the ship, the silver ship that you kept folded up in your pocket till you needed it! Oh, Zeham, you must ask Romond to tell a story, there never was such a tale-spinner!
ZEHAM: (perfectly polite, perfectly uninterested, perfectly stupid) Yes, of course.
ROMOND: My lady, I came in hope of seeing the king — your father. I did not know he’d been ill —
His words as soon as he says ‘the king’ are a cold wind: Zeham and others turn away; Bolhan grimaces; Shiros’s face becomes a mask.
SHIROS: You are welcome as long as you wish to stay, Lord Traveller.
ZEHAM: Come on, Shiros, it’s time to feed the deer.
The prince takes the queen’s hand and she turns willingly, and all the troop of courtiers move like a flock of peacocks to the door. Kida catches up to Bolhan as they go out, and we hear part of a question he is asking with some urgency but not loudly:
KIDA: But is the old man actually in prison? What did the —
Bolhan hushes him with an impatient gesture. They go out.
Romond lingers behind. Servants move deftly to set the room in order. Romond goes to the wall behind the throne and lifts aside the gorgeous flowered tapestry that covers it, revealing a blank wall no trace of any door. A servant watches him curiously, but says nothing. He goes across the room, past the empty throne, with a troubled look.
Images of Romond’s Search for Ashthera.
Romond is at a temple in the forest. He has been taken in for the night, and is sitting with the temple attendants at their fire. There are only eight or ten of them, various ages, dressed in the white temple garments, clearly very poor, humble, rustic people. The statue of the dancing god/dess in the sanctuary is squat and crude. Romond asks or has asked his question, and they shake their heads; the oldest of them makes a dropping gesture softly.
OLD PRIESTESS: The falling of a leaf.
Romond is on a well-beaten path through the forest. He is striding right along, until he comes to a clearing: the scene of one of the Images of King Ashthera’s War — the guerrilla camp in the hills. He stops, staring, and the soldiers in their ragged gear, the cookfires, the lean-tos of stick and canvas, all appear, a little shadowy and insubstantial in the empty clearing; and Ashthera comes forward smiling, saying, “Where the devil have you been!” — He fades away, it all fades away, and Romond stammers aloud to the empty clearing
ROMOND: I got lost—
In a peasant’s farmyard in lonely country, Romond talks with a toothless peasant, a man who looks like he was made out of dirt.
PEASANT: Oh aye, he did stay the night here, when he was fighting them Kammin men, them sojers, he was king then. He slep in the cowbarn there with his men. Would I forget that? It was the nex winter the cattle starve, I los all I had. Where’s he now? Ain’t he back where he belongs? How’d I know where he went?
A beautiful stormy sunset over wide, ploughed lands. Romond talks to a woman, standing off a way in the fields. She points to the west.
Hot sunlight on a dusty country road — the same scene as one of the Images of Romond’s Journey to the Capital. Romond goes trudging along, just as then, but this time going from left to right, westward.
In a misty, opalescent late afternoon, Romond comes to a little town on the western coast: Tollin. He is farther south on the bay shore than the opening scenes. Tollin is a beautiful, lonely, very poor place, a huddle of wooden houses and drying-sheds and quais and fishing-boats at the mouth of a small quiet river emptying into TollinBay. It looks out to the island in the middle of the bay, on which the star fell in the opening scene, and beyond it to the western hills which lie between the bay and the open sea. Romond comes up the riverside street and goes into an inn, a low, crooked door under a crudely painted sign of an anchor.
In the Dunes of Tollin.
Long dunes, topped with feathery grasses, fade and reappear in the mist and weak sunlight of morning. Leaving the quais and landings of the little town behind him, Romond comes walking up the beach, which is wide and flat and lonely at low tide. Up in the dunes a few huts crouch. He passes evidences of fishing, a beached overturned boat, a net hung up to mend on driftwood stakes. A lame dog, a middle-sized yellowish mongrel, runs down from the dunes at him, and barks and snarls, circling him. It will not come close to him when he speaks mildly to it, but will not leave him alone. Up in the sheltered vale between two dunes is a windowless hut, patched together out of driftwood and scrap lumber. An old man is sitting on the doorstep, hunched up against the cold wind that blows the mist and the dune-grass and his grey hair. The dog stands directly between him and Romond and barks desperately.
ASHTHERA: Be quiet, dog. Be quiet.
He puts out his hand and the dog comes to him at once and presses against his leg, still shaking and snarling. He strokes its neck and back to calm it, and after a vacant glance at Romond goes on staring out to sea. He looks very old and very ill, thin, wrinkled, his skin yellow, his hair long and grey.
ROMOND: Ashthera — my lord — my friend — I have... I have been looking for you.
Ashthera is not interested. His voice is thin and hoarse.
ASHTHERA: What did you want him for?
ROMOND: Do you know me?
Ashthera looks at him and then back at the bay, still indifferent.
ASHTHERA: I always knew you, lord.
ROMOND: I am Romond —
There is a pause. Ashthera seems to pull himself together a little, with effort; when he speaks it is with an effort of memory, and with dignity.
ASHTHERA: Yes. You were Romond. I was Ashthera. Is it time?
Romond does not speak for a while. He squats down near Ashthera, facing the bay, his arms over his knees. The dog growls a bit but sits still when Ashthera puts his hand on its shoulders. The mist is clearing off, blowing in tatters in the sunlight.
ROMOND: You always walked the edge. The ridgeway, that looks into both lands. You always read in the margins of the book. I could only read the words; you read the white where there are no words. Is that why I loved you? Idolatrous, ignorant, unimportant, the so-called king of an insignificant piece of a useless planet... . You looked at me, you looked through me, and talked to God. And I thought I understood something I had never understood. Ashthera, tell me, who am I?
ASHTHERA: The guide. I can’t find the way alone. I tried to. I’m very tired. Will you take me home?
ROMOND: (frowns, and then, reinterpreting the words) Yes. Yes! I will take you. I’ll take you where you deserve to be. Listen, Ashthera. I can cure you — you have years to live, you can’t be fifty yet. — If I had the equipment — (Interrupting himself in excitement) I can show you wonders, things beyond your knowledge, but they’re not beyond your understanding — Why should a mind like yours rot here forever? Why do you have to be wasted? (He stands up full of passion and enthusiasm.) Come, come with me. I’ll set you free, Ashthera. I’ll make you king of a real kingdom, your true inheritance at last!
ASHTHERA: I had enough of being king. Being free will do. Can we go now?
Romond forestalls Ashthera’s painful effort to get to his feet.
ROMOND: This evening. After sunset. I’ll come back. My boat’s on that island out in the bay. The way to the new life, Ashthera!
A5HTHERA: (patiently) I can’t see that far.
In the Dunes of Tollin in the Evening.
There is the same twilight quiet as in the opening scene — the mountains across the bay just visible in the afterglow, the blue dusk glimmering on the water. Romond approaches the hut in the dunes. He is wearing his silver suit, as when we first saw him, and is carrying a cloak for Ashthera; the sea-wind snaps and curls the cloak. A long way beh
ind Romond, some fishermen are keeping an eye on his movements. They conceal a lantern, scuttle behind a dune. He takes no notice of them. The lame dog rushes out of the hut barking desperately and will not let Romond approach.
ROMOND: Ashthera! Call off your dog!
ASHTHERA: (inside the hut) Come on, dog. Come here.
The dog goes into the hut, whining. Romond follows cautiously. He has to crouch to get in the doorway. Inside the hut it is completely dark, until one begins to make out slivers of twilight showing in many cracks between the logs and boards. Ashthera is visible only as a movement of darkness across these streaks of light, and when he enters Romond too becomes a bulk of darkness only vaguely outlined by grey light from the doorway.
ASHTHERA: It’s all right, dog. Lie down.
ROMOND: Isn’t there a lantern?
ASHTHERA: No.
ROMOND: No light, no fire — you don’t even have a bed? Is this your holy life?
ASHTHERA: This is old age and poverty.
ROMOND: Here, put this on. It’s a cold evening.
ASHTHERA: Will I have to walk?
ROMOND: It isn’t far.
ASHTHERA: I thought I heard the river running by the door. It sounded closer every night. It can’t be far to walk.
They emerge into the outside dusk, which seems light, now. Romond helps Ashthera put on the cloak. Ashthera tries to walk, and Romond sees at once that he will have to help him. They hobble very slowly down the beach towards the mouth of the river. The feeble yellowish lights of the town gleam over the dunes. The dog, worried and cringing, follows them at a little distance.
The Boat-Landing of Tollin.
They arrive, painfully, at a small, low, wooden dock or quai, the one farthest downstream in the river, almost out in the bay, and so farthest from the town. Romond’s boat is tied up to the landing: a tiny, trim powerboat, hardly bigger than a kayak, all silver — presumably aluminum or some alloy.
It is difficult for Ashthera to get down into the boat. He has to sit on the dock-edge and drop down into the boat with Romond’s help, and finally sits on the thwart, exhausted and in pain. Romond reaches up to untie the painter. The dog stands shaking and whining on the landing just above them.
ASHTHERA: Come on, then! Jump!
ROMOND: No, leave the dog.
ASHTHERA: (in a shaky old man’s voice) Leave the dog?
ROMOND: We can’t take him.
ASHTHERA: (very upset) Wait! What’ll he do? He ate the food they gave me. It’s all he gets. He’s lame, they throw rocks at him in the village. I can’t leave him here.
ROMOND: There’s no place for dogs where I’m taking you.
ASHTHERA: Surely there’s room there for all who come?
Romond stands in the prow looking down at his passenger. He’s forgotten what he’s up against in Ashthera, and is eager to be off; he speaks with affection, impatience, frustration, and command.
ROMOND: Listen, Ashthera. You don’t understand. I’m not your god. I’m not your guide to death. I’m a man like yourself. I’m taking you on a journey which you can’t understand now, but you will, I promise. I’m taking you out of darkness to the light — to a new world, a new life. You must do as I say.
ASHTHERA: (with absolute simplicity) My lord, I have never understood. But the dog stayed with me. Even when I had no food for it.
ROMOND: I give up! Bring the dog.
Ashthera looks up at the landing, slaps the thwart; the dog jumps down into the boat and curls up tight against Ashthera’s leg.
Romond starts up the engine, which is almost noiseless, the faintest purr. The boat glides rapidly out onto the river.
On shore, villagers of Tollin come out from behind dunes or pilings and watch, silent; we hear one awed murmur:
A FISHERMAN: No oars. No sail….
They watch the boat go out into the current and turn into the open waters of the bay. There waves lift it and it is silhouetted a moment against the western sky, then disappears, going towards the island in the bay. The villagers slowly turn and trudge up the riverbank towards the town, muttering to one another.
They come into the riverside street among the little houses. It is nearly dark, and they are separating to go to their homes, with quiet goodnights, when a woman cries out:
WOMAN: Look! Look at the island! Look!
From the island out in the bay a light rises, first like a flare going up, then like a tower of silver: a tremendous white glare lights the whole scene, rising, a star shooting upward becoming a comet, then a spark, then gone at the top of the sky among the misty stars, leaving the villagers in the dark street above the river staring up in silence.
Part Six: On the Space Ship
All white. Pure white. Translucent and crystalline forms occur on the whiteness, changing place and shape sometimes softly and smoothly, sometimes too quickly for the eye to follow. The quality of the clear white light thickens and varies from time to time. An angle which might be the corner of the walls and ceiling of a white room, or the inside of a box, occurs and fades away. Oscillating waves, delicate curves of light, occur and fade, as do similar sounds. All these visual events are vague, white-on-white, just enough to keep the eye occupied and even strained. They occur during a series of different voices speaking, sometimes near, sometimes distant and distorted.
VOICE OVER 1: (cool and asexual) The condition has progressed too far. The kidneys and liver have been replaced, of course. Gross damage has been repaired. But total restoration is out of the question.
What might be an eye, all in shades of white, occurs for a while near the center of the field of vision, slowly turns into a whirlpool, and fades away.
VOICE OVER 1: You should have brought him sooner if you were going to bring him at all. There’s no use trying for longevity, this late, after such extensive trauma.
There are curving, flowing bulks of white which could conceivably be arms, shoulders, backs.
VOICE OVER 2: A society that permits bodily degradation of this kind — the idea is disgusting. How could you live among them for twelve years, Romond?
ROMOND’S VOICE: It wasn’t always easy.
Rolling regular waves of greyish white. A singing noise, a machine, increases, pulses, dies away.
VOICE OVER 1: We can guarantee, oh, five years of life at best. Ten with luck.
VOICE OVER 2: What made this scar?
ROMOND’S VOICE: An arrow.
VOICE OVER 2: A what?
VOICE OVER 3: He means a weapon. Not a symbol in a diagram, or a This-Way-to-the-Lobby sign, but a genuine arrow. How quaint!
The whiteness has begun to darken, and shadows run across it; there is something like a shower of arrows. A dull thrumming noise has begun.
VOICE OVER 1: We gave the animal a bone transplant. Neat job. Good fun. What did you bring it for? It isn’t even IQ testable.
The whiteness has darkened inward from the edges of the field of vision until it is now a brownish purple haze. The dog, with bones sticking out of it all over like arrows, walks snarling across the center. The thrumming noise is very loud.
VOICE OVER 2: He’s hallucinating. Increase the dosage.
White-out. The dog dissolves into dazzling sparkles.
Darkness and Stars.
A wonderful sky of stars, the veil of the Crab Nebula faint among them. Very slowly a silvery rim seems to grow around the field of stars, as the camera pulls back enough to show the huge viewport of the ship, and two men, small black silhouettes, gazing out. There is no sense of movement; the ship is stationary in orbit. The camera moves forward to fill the screen with stars again. Gradually and dimly the face and figure of the dancing god/dess of the tapestry of the Inner Room of the Palace are superimposed upon the field of stars, and the sun and moon in the god/dess’s hands glow brighter than the stars.
ASHTHERA’S VOICE: The stars are grains of sand. I have seen you dance on the sands of the river shore.
The faint, insistent, shrill barking of the yellow dog
.
Images of the Space Ship.
These images give a picture of a huge ship, self-contained, a stable environment and a stable community, a very high level of technology, everything controlled: the acme of artificial environment. The technology and the science is beyond ours, and events, devices, appliances that we don’t understand are shown us. Everywhere, in brief cuts of people at meals, at desks, in the bridge of the ship, in exercise rooms, in the halls, laboratories, offices, we see bright whites and bright colors, cleanliness, comfort, order. Complex and beautiful machinery runs itself. There is a continuous flash and ripple of communications by light, sound, words and symbols running on screens. There is music on the sound systems, the walls of rooms and halls are muralled or hung with photographs, abstract paintings, and calligraphy. It is not a sterile, militaristic environment, but aesthetically rich, complex, even overloaded. Some of the images:
A stunning exterior view of the great ship, one side sunlit, the other invisible in the black nullity of shadow in space. A tiny planet-hopper approaches, enters a landing bay, while a mechanical voice says, “Unmanned exploratory vehicle A-7-4 with radioactive ore load now entering Bay 14.”
A computer on the bridge printing out sheets of columns of figures, each sheet headed: EXPLORATORY MISSION — STAR 11097 B — PLANETS 5, 6, 7, SUBSATELLITES 5A, 5B, 7A — SUMMARY OF HIGH VALUE MINERAL DEPOSITS.
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