by Mike Resnick
The room, though overloaded with books, tapes, papers, and various alien artifacts, was nonetheless even neater than the outer corridor. Frilly little white things hung down over the windows, and a vase filled with freshly cut flowers took up the right-hand corner of the large desk that sat in the middle of the room. And sitting at the desk was a caricature so blatant that no cartoonist would have dared to imitate it.
She was a little old lady. Wrong, corrected Lane: she was the Little Old Lady, replete with short, fluffy gray hair, cherubic cheeks, about forty excess pounds on her small frame, and a smile that most doting grandmothers would have given their remaining teeth for.
“Yes?” she said, looking up. “What can I do for you, young man?”
Lane smiled: “It's been a long time since I was a young man, but thank you anyway. I'm looking for Ondine Gillian.”
“And now you've found her,” said the woman, returning his smile.
“You?” said Lane. “Somehow you're not quite what I pictured.”
“The name,” said Ondine, nodding cheerfully. “Most people expect some will-o'-the-wisp sea-nymph who wears mollusk shells in her hair.”
“Not at all,” said Lane. “I expected an austere, rather severe woman who would throw my message into the trash can.”
“Message?” she said. “Then you must be Mr. Lane.”
“Correct,” said Lane. “And may I say that you bear no resemblance to the cold-blooded, analytical, emotionless woman who wrote the monographs I've read.”
“Why, thank you so much,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Won't you pull up a chair and sit down, Mr. Lane?”
Lane shut the door behind him and pulled a chair over to the desk. As he did so, Ondine handed him a three-dimensional photograph.
“Six of my grandchildren,” she said with a note of pride. “My son, who occasionally forgets that our family did not begin with his birth, finally got around to sending it to me this morning.”
Lane looked at the children, none of whom appeared half so cherubic as their grandmother, and made appropriate polite noises.
“Can I offer you a cup of tea?” asked Ondine.
“Tea?” repeated Lane. “I haven't had tea in, oh, it must be twenty years. Yes, I'd appreciate that.”
Even before he had finished the sentence, Ondine had scurried over to the wall, slid back a panel, grabbed a metal teapot, and poured the contents into a small china cup.
“Sugar?” she asked, hovering over him as he tentatively took a sip.
“To tell the truth, I don't remember,” said Lane.
“I'd advise against it. It's bad for the teeth.”
“I'll take your word for it,” said Lane, taking another sip. “It's very good.”
“It's even better with lemon,” said Ondine. “Can I get you some?”
“No, thanks,” said Lane. “Please sit down.”
“I'm sorry,” said Ondine, who didn't look sorry at all. “Sometimes I get a little overenthused, especially with the children all grown and gone. I know its considered terribly gauche, but I do so love doing for people.”
“Which brings me to the subject of my visit,” said Lane. “I need some help, though not of a maternal nature.”
“I'd be delighted, Mr. Lane,” said Ondine. “It's so rare that anyone, except for an occasional student, comes up here to see me. I've certainly no wish to chase you away, but may I ask why you have sought me out?”
“Of course,” said Lane. “From what I've been able to ascertain, you are the leading living authority on ancient nonhuman civilizations in the vicinity of the dust cloud. I happen to be extremely interested in that area.”
“Oh, bosh!” she said, blushing slightly. “I've done a little research on some of the planetary cultures in that area, but certainly I'm not the leading authority even within the confines of this university. I'm just an old woman who decided not to wither away waiting for her children to remember to come to dinner every now and then.”
“You're too modest,” said Lane.
“You're too kind,” Ondine replied, smiling. “By the way, have you seen it?”
“Ma'am?” said Lane, puzzled.
“Why, the Dreamwish Beast, of course. Have you seen it already, or are you just setting out to find it? That is why you're here, is it not?” She smiled sweetly and poured him another cup of tea.
“I've seen it,” said Lane, who decided that Ondine Gillian wasn't quite as pink and fluffy as she looked.
“I thought so,” she said cheerfully.
“I want to know everything you can tell me about it,” said Lane. “Fact, fable, myth, legend, tall tales, I don't care. I'll sort them all out later.”
“What exactly is your interest in it, Mr. Lane?”
“I'm a hunter.”
“And you wish to kill the Dreamwish Beast?”
“I'm not sure,” said Lane. “For the moment, I just want to learn a little more about it.”
“Has some museum financed you?” asked Ondine.
He shook his head. “I'm independent. Besides, no museum will be able to use the thing. At least, not until they find a way to stuff and mount a ball of energy.”
“Where did you see it?” asked Ondine.
“The first time was near Pinnipes. It ducked around a black hole and I lost it.”
“The first time?” Suddenly she frowned. It was replaced an instant later by the smile which Lane suspected was the protective coloring of a woman who was far more intellectually formidable than she wanted anyone to know. “Have you seen it since?”
“Twice,” said Lane.
“That's very interesting,” said Ondine. “May I offer you a muffin to go with your tea?”
Lane shook his head.
“Very well,” she said, looking disappointed, but taking one herself. “Where shall I begin? At the beginning, I suppose. The Dreamwish Beast has cropped up, in one form or another, in nine different cultures of the dustcloud area. In each case, the races in question had developed interstellar travel, which would certainly lead me to believe that it doesn't ever get too close to a planetary system. May I get you a cushion to sit on?”
“No, thank you,” said Lane. “Please continue.”
“Certainly,” said Ondine, flashing him another smile. “The oldest reference to it comes from the Lemm, an amphibious race that had space travel when Man was still swinging in trees and looking for grubworms—although it is my own belief that Australopithicus africanus had no more tree-climbing ability than I do. The feet simply weren't made for it. All that talk about tree-climbing is just a lot of rubbish, don't you agree?”
“I have no opinion,” said Lane, grinning. “You seem to end every paragraph with a question.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Lane,” said Ondine. “It's a nervous little habit of mine. I suppose it's to force people to listen to what I'm saying. You have no idea how effective it can be when I'm lecturing to a classful of rather bored students. Of course, my own children continually disregard it, but I suppose one can't have everything.”
“Getting back to the Lemm...” said Lane tentatively.
“Ah, yes, the Lemm. Being amphibious, as I said, they were interested only in water worlds, and ultimately they came to Pinnipes II. Evidently they found conditions there to be too harsh"—Lane chuckled at that—"but somewhere on the journey there or back they came across a life form in interstellar space. Since we have yet to find any other creature that can live in the void, and since later legends and sightings, including your own, have placed it within a reasonable distance of the Pinnipes system, I believe that this creature was indeed the Dreamwish Beast.”
“Did they leave behind any description of it?'’ asked Lane.
“I'm afraid not, Mr. Lane,” said Ondine. “You must remember that they had only a passing interest in it, or in anything else that didn't pertain to water worlds. I stumbled over a reference to it during my readings and deduced the rest.”
“How long ago was this?”
<
br /> “My research, or the sighting?” asked Ondine.
“The sighting,” said Lane.
“At least a million years; probably closer to a million and a half.”
“Too long,” said Lane.
“I beg your pardon?” said Ondine.
“I'd like to find out how long it takes to make one complete circuit of its feeding grounds,” said Lane. “That would give me an idea where to find it at any given time. However, that's too far back. It must have gone back and forth a number of times since then. Please continue.”
“The next legitimate reference to it comes from the race of Dorne, from the planetary system of Belore,” said Ondine.
“Didn't we kill off the Dornes in a war a couple of thousand years ago?” asked Lane.
“Almost,” said Ondine. “A handful survived, and the remnants of the race exist even today, though I believe there are only one hundred or so left.”
“What did they have to say about the creature?” asked Lane.
“Quite a lot,” replied Ondine. “In fact, they seem to have built their entire culture upon the Dreamwish Beast.”
“Why would anyone do that?” said Lane, genuinely puzzled.
“I rather hoped you might have some suggestion along that line,” said Ondine. “It appears that the Dornes and the Dreamwish Beasts were blood enemies—at least according to the Dornes.”
“Dreamwish Beasts?” said Lane. “There was more than one?”
“Of course,” said Ondine. “There seems to have been an entire race of them. The Dornes’ history is unclear, which is not unexpected after all this time, but it appears that at one point the Dornes went hunting for the beasts, probably as a ritualistic rite of passage into adulthood. According to everything I can find on the subject, they were quite convinced they had killed off all of the beasts. When I first came across the references to the Dreamwish Beast among the other cultures, I assumed that they were simply myths based on the legends of the Dornes. But there have been too many sightings by members of our own race, who couldn't possibly have had any contact with the Dorne culture, for me to doubt that at least one Dreamwish Beast escaped the slaughter.”
“What weapons did they use?” asked Lane.
“The Dornes? I have absolutely no idea. My interests have never run along those lines, Mr. Lane. Anyway, sometime either during or immediately after the killing, a drastic change overcame the Dorne culture. They became a race of death-worshipers. Not life after death, like the ancient Egyptians, but death as an end in itself. I believe that they're the only such culture in the known galaxy.”
“Dreamwish Beast seems to be its most common name,” said Lane. “How did it come about?”
“I'm not really sure,” said Ondine. “There's an old legend about a shipful of human explorers who ran into it centuries ago. Theoretically the creature somehow impressed such horrible dreams and nightmares upon them that they either went mad or died. It's completely unauthenticated, to be sure, and I don't believe it for a minute"—she paused for a breath and shot a quick glance at him—"but a few centuries of retelling could result not only in a name like Dreamwish Beast, but in Deathdealer as well. As for Sunlighter and the other names, I have no knowledge whatsoever of their origins. You must remember, Mr. Lane, that this creature is peripheral to my main interest; I have never attempted to make a study of it, and know of it only in relation to the cultures that I am studying.”
“You can add another name to the list,” said Lane. “Starduster.”
“Starduster,” she repeated. “Yes, that would certainly fit, wouldn't it? And of course it's very colorful. I fully approve of it, Mr. Lane. Is it your own creation?”
“No,” said Lane. “I don't call it anything. It was coined by an old man that the creature killed. I don't even know what his name was.”
“What a shame,” said Ondine earnestly. “Were you there, Mr. Lane?”
He nodded.
“Why weren't you killed too, if I may ask?”
“He was a used-up old man,” said Lane.
“You might have said that you were a vigorous young man,” said Ondine. “But let it pass.”
“I meant no disrespect,” said Lane.
“I know,” said Ondine, putting her smile back on. “I'm just a little sensitive to such things these days. Can you tell me how your companion was killed?”
“It seems to have a defensive mechanism the likes of which I've never run across before,” said Lane. He described it in detail, including the death of the Mariner and his most recent meeting with the creature, only omitting his own reaction to it.
“Fascinating!” said Ondine. “And of course, it explains an enormous amount about the explorers who went mad. However,” she added, her brow furrowed, “it doesn't quite explain the Dorne culture, does it?”
“I suppose not,” said Lane.
“Is there anything you can tell me about the Dreamwish Beast?”
“Well, the creature is about seven miles in diameter, roughly spherical in shape, no visible sensory or locomotive organs of any type, kind of a dull red-orange in color, it gives off a sizable infrared reading, and it's fully capable of attaining light speeds.”
“And, of course, the Bible would approve of it,” said Ondine.
“I'm afraid I don't quite follow you,” said Lane.
“Whatever harm you do to it comes right back at you,” said Ondine. “I can't imagine any better example of the old saying about an eye for an eye.”
“Perhaps,” said Lane.
Ondine glanced at her old-fashioned wristwatch. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “I hadn't even noticed the time. I'm afraid I'm going to have to run, Mr. Lane. It's my eldest granddaughter's birthday tomorrow, and I've hardly bought her any presents at all.”
“How many grandchildren do you have?” asked Lane.
“Eleven,” she said proudly.
“Buying presents for all of them must be quite a strain.”
“What's a grandmother for?” she said with a chuckle. “Besides, if it wasn't for me, their birthdays and the holidays would slip by completely unnoticed by their parents.” She wrinkled her stubby little nose at the thought. Then she pulled out a piece of paper, began writing on it, and finally handed it over to Lane.
“You'll be wanting to speak to a Dorne, of course,” she said. “They don't have much use for Men, but this should serve as an introduction to one of them who has proved quite useful to my studies. His name is Vostuvian.”
“Thank you,” said Lane. He looked at the paper and was unable to read a word of it.
Ondine was scurrying around the office, washing out the teacup and cleaning a few crumbs away from in front of the muffin container, as Lane walked to the door.
“Oh, Mr. Lane,” she called after him.
“Yes?” he said, turning to her.
“The dust cloud is trillions upon trillions of cubic miles in volume, isn't it?”
Lane nodded.
“The odds against any two things, even stars, meeting within the cloud are literally astronomical, aren't they?”
“Yes.”
“Then if I were you,” she said, picking up a rag and beginning to clean off her desk, “I think I would ask myself why I had met the Dreamwish Beast three times already.”
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CHAPTER 11
Belore was a dirty world, dirty and dry and dusty. Here and there one could find a little water, barely enough for the sustenance of life. Once there had been more, once there had been shining cities alive with trade and commerce, and people had flowed through the streets and across the fertile plains, proud and happy and hopeful. Now the cities were decaying ruins, the commerce and trade a distant memory, and the people a downtrodden remnant of what had once been a strong and vigorous race.
Lane made his way across a dusty field to a little row of mud-caked shanties, forty-one in number, housing what was left of the Dornes. Elsewhere on the
planet was a gleaming Tradertown, and a number of refining and smelting plants, but the Dornes had no interest or intercourse with any of the alien races that had set up shop on their world. They sat, and ate, and slept, and waited for the last member of their race to die.
As Lane reached the nearest of the shanties, he got his first look at a Dorne. It was a male, strikingly humanoid in appearance, standing about seven feet tall, unbelievably gaunt, bald, with enormous bulging eyes and broad, wide-set nostrils. Each hand possessed three fingers and a pair of opposing thumbs, and the arms and legs were jointed very close to the hands and feet, but the overall effect was not too discordant.
Lane walked up to the Dorne.
“Can you tell me where I can find Vostuvian?” he asked.
The Dorne simply stared at him.
Lane tried once more in Terran, then repeated the question in Galactic, Camphorian, two Terrazane dialects, and even the bastard humanoid tongue that had cropped up on the frontiers. The Dorne's expression never changed.
“Vostuvian,” repeated Lane, growing impatient.
No answer.
He had just about made up his mind to go from shanty to shanty until he found a Dorne who answered to the name when he heard a low voice, almost a whisper, from behind him.
“I am Vostuvian.”
He turned and found himself facing another Dorne. At first they appeared to be identical, but upon closer scrutiny he was able to spot minute differences in facial and skeletal structure between them. And, of course, the rags each wore were of different colors and lengths.
“You speak Terran?”
“When I must,” said Vostuvian. “I much prefer not to, but I do not suppose that you can speak Beloran.”
“Not yet,” said Lane.
Vostuvian made a slight motion, a swaying of his hips white the rest of his body remained rigid, and immediately the other Dorne walked off, leaving him alone with Lane.
“Who are you?” said Vostuvian in the half-whisper which Lane assumed was the normal Dorne speaking voice. It puzzled him, as the Dornes’ ears were mere holes in the sides of their heads, and very small holes at that. “Why do you know my name, and what business have you with the race of Dorne?”
