"Yes, he made a strike here years ago. Yndella crystals."
"I see. Interesting."
"What's in this for you, anyway?"
"Protecting visitors is a part of my job. In your case, I feel particularly protective."
"How so?"
"In my earlier life I was attracted to women of your—specifications. Physical, as well as what I can tell of the rest."
"Two-beat pause, then, "You are blushing."
"Compliments do that to me," she says, "and that's a hell of a monitoring system you have. What's it like?"
"Oh, I can tell your body temperature, your pulse rate—"
"No, I mean, what's it like being—what you are?"
Three-beat pause. "Godlike in some ways. Very human in others —almost exaggeratedly so. I feel something of an amplification of everything I was earlier. Perhaps it's a compensation or a clinging to things past. You make me feel nostalgic—among other things. Don't fret. I'm enjoying it."
"I'd like to have met you then."
"Mutual."
"What were you like?"
"Imagine me as you would. I'll come off looking better that way."
She laughs. She adjusts her filters. She thinks about Paul.
"What was he like in his earlier days—Paul?" she asks.
"Probably pretty much the way he is now, only less polished."
"In other words, you don't care to say."
The trail turns upward more steeply, curves to the right. She hears winds but does not feel them. Cloud-shadow grayness lies all about, but her trail is lighted.
"I don't really know," Aldon says, after a time, "and I will not guess, in the case of someone you care about."
"Gallant," she observes.
"No, just fair," he replies. "I might be wrong."
They continue to the top of the rise, where Dorothy draws a sharp breath and further darkens her goggles against the sudden blaze where a range of ice fractures rainbows and strews their shards like confetti in all directions.
"God!" she says.
"Or goddess," Aldon replies.
"A goddess, sleeping in a circle of flame?"
"Not sleeping."
"That would be a lady for you, Aldon—if she existed. God and goddess."
"I do not want a goddess."
"I can see his tracks, heading into that."
"Not swerving a bit, as if he knows where he's going."
She follows, tracing slopes like the curves of a pale torso. The world is stillness and light and whiteness. Aldon on her wrist hums softly now, an old tune, whether oflove or martial matters she isn't certain. Distances are distorted, perspectives skewed. She finds herself humming softly along with him, heading for the place where Paul's tracks find their vanishing point and enter infinity.
THE LIMP WATCH HUNG UPON THE TREE LIMB. My lucky day. The weather ... trail clean. Things changed but not so out of shape I can't tell where it is. The lights! God, yes! Iceshine, mounds of prisms. ... If only the opening is still there... . Should have brought explosives. There has been shifting, maybe a collapse. Must get in. Return later with Dorothy. But first—clean up, get rid of ... it. If she's still there... . Swallowed up maybe. That would be good, best. Things seldom are, though. I— When it happened. Wasn't as if. Wasn't what. Was... . Was shaking the ground. Cracking, splitting. Icicles ringing, rattling, banging about. Thought we'd go under. Both of us. She was going in. So was the bag of the stuff. Grabbed the stuff. Only because it was nearer. Would have helped her if—Couldn't. Could I? Ceiling was slipping. Get out. No sense both of us getting it. Got out. She'd've done the same. Wouldn't she? Her eyes... . Glenda! Maybe ... No! Couldn't have. Just couldn't. Could I? Silly. After all these years. There was a moment. Just a moment, though. A lull. If I'd known it was coming I might have. No. Ran. Your face at the window, on the screen, in a sometime dream. Glenda. It wasn't that I didn't. Blaze of hills. Fire and eyes. Ice. Ice. Fire and snow. Blazing hearthful. Ice. Ice. Straight through the ice the long road lies. The fire hangs high above. The screaming. The crash. And the silence. Get out. Yet. Different? No. It could never have. That was the way. Not my fault... . Damn it. Everything I could. Glenda. Up ahead. Yes. Long curve. Then down. Winding back in there. The crystals will... . I'll never come back to this place.
THE LIMP TREE LIMB HUNG UPON THE WATCH. Gotcha! Think I can't see through the fog? Can't sneak up on me on little cat feet. Same for your partner across the way. Ill melt off a little more near your bases, too. A lot of housecleaning backed up here... . Might as well take advantage of the break. Get those streets perfect... . How long? Long... . Long legs parting... . Long time since. Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance? Unnatural. This weather. A sort of spiritual spring... . Extend those beams. Burn. Melt in my hot, red-fingered hands. Back off, I say. I rule here. Clear that courtyard. Unplug that drain. Come opportunity, let me clasp thee. Melt. Burn. I rule here, goddess. Draw back. I've a bomb for every tower of ice, a light for any darkness. Tread carefully here. I feel I begin to know thee. I see thy signature in cloud and fog bank, trace thy icy tresses upon the blowing wind. Thy form lies contoured all about me, white as shining death. We're due an encounter. Let the clouds spiral, ice ring, Earth heave. I rush to meet thee, death or maiden, in halls of crystal upon the heights. Not here. Long, slow fall, ice facade, crashing. Melt. Another... . Gotcha!
FROZEN WATCH EMBEDDED IN PERMAFROST. Bristle and thrum. Coming now. Perchance. Perchance. Perchance. I say. Throstle. Crack. Sunder. Split. Open. Coming. Beyond the ice in worlds I have known. Returning. He. Throstle. The mind the mover. To open the way. Come now. Let not to the meeting impediments. Admit. Open. Cloud stand thou still, and wind be leashed. None dare oppose thy passage returning, my killer love. It was but yesterday. A handful of stones... . Come singing fresh-armed from the warm places. I have looked upon thy unchanged countenance. I open the way. Come to me. Let not to the mating. I —Girding the globe. I have awakened in all of my places to receive thee. But here, here this special spot, I focus, mind the mover, in place where it all began, my bloody handed, Paul my love, calling, back, for the last good-bye, ice kiss, fire touch, heart stop, blood still, soul freeze, embrace of world and my hate with thy fugitive body, elusive the long year now. Come into the place it has waited. I move there again, up sciatic to spine, behind the frozen eyeballs, waiting and warming. To me. To me now. Throstle and click, bristle and thrum. And runners scratching the snow, my heart slashing parallel. Cut.
PILGRIMAGE. He swerves, turns, slows amid the ragged prominences—ice fallen, ice heaved—in the fields where mountain and glacier wrestle in slow motion, to the accompaniment of occasional cracking and pinging sounds, crashes, growls, and the rattle of blown ice crystals. Here the ground is fissured as well as greatly uneven, and Paul abandons his snowslider. He secures some tools to his belt and his pack, anchors the sled, and commences the trek.
At first, he moves slowly and carefully, but old reflexes return, and soon he is hurrying. Moving from dazzle to shade, he passes among ice forms like grotesque statues of glass. The slope is changed from the old one he remembers, but it feels right. And deep, below, to the right... .
Yes. That darker place. The canyon or blocked pass, whichever it was. That seems right, too. He alters his course slightly. He is sweating now within his protective clothing, and his breath comes faster as he increases his pace. His vision blurs, and for a moment, somewhere between glare and shadow, he seems to see... .
He halts, sways a moment, then shakes his head, snorts, and continues.
Another hundred meters and he is certain. Those rocky ribs to the northeast, snow rivulets diamond hard between them... . He has been here before.
The stillness is almost oppressive. In the distance he sees spumes of windblown snow jetting off and eddying down from a high, white peak. If he stops and listens carefully he can even hear the far winds.
There is a hole in the middle of the clouds, directly overhead. It is as if he were looking downward upon a lake in a crater.
More than unusual. He is tempted to turn back. His trank has worn off, and his stomach feels unsettled. He half-wishes to discover that this is not the place. But he knows that feelings are not very important. He continues until he stands before the opening.
There has been some shifting, some narrowing of the way. He approaches slowly. He regards the passage for a full minute before he moves to enter.
He pushes back his goggles as he comes into the lessened light. He extends a gloved hand, places it upon the facing wall, pushes. Firm. He tests the one behind him. The same.
Three paces forward and the way narrows severely. He turns and sidles. The light grows dimmer, the surface beneath his feet, more slick. He slows. He slides a hand along either wall as he advances. He passes through a tiny spot of light beneath an open ice chimney. Overhead, the wind is howling a high note now, almost whistling it.
The passage begins to widen. As his right hand falls away from the more sharply angling wall his balance is tipped in that direction. He draws back to compensate, but his left foot slides backward and falls. He attempts to rise, slips, and falls again.
Cursing, he begins to crawl forward. This area had not been slick before... . He chuckles. Before? A century ago. Things do change in a span like that. They—