Chapter II

Outside the office building, Emrys Shortmire paused and inhaled deeply. Say what you would about the atmospheres of some of the other planets’ being fresher and purer, the air of Earth, being the air in which Man had evolved, was the air that felt best in his nostrils and filled his lungs to greatest satisfaction. And, after the fetid atmosphere of Morethis, this was pure heaven. Gray sky and violet dying sun against blue sky and radiant golden sun. No wonder the Morethans were what they were, and Earthmen were what they were.

Well, the golden sun of Earth would set somewhat sooner than the physicists--or the sociologists--had prognosticated. But all that would be long after he himself had died. It was no concern of his, anyway. He was Emrys Shortmire, born out of Jan Shortmire and no mortal woman; and nothing else on Earth, or in the Universe, mattered.

Disdaining the importunate heli-cabs that besieged him with plaintive mechanical offers of transportation, he walked down the street, enjoying the pull of the planet upon the youth and strength of his body, delighting in the clarity of his vision and the keenness of his nostrils. He was so absorbed in his thoughts and so unaccustomed still to Earth’s traffic that he did not look where he was going. The groundcar was upon him before he knew it. Of course something like this would happen, he thought bitterly, as darkness descended upon him and he waited for the crushing impact. It was always like that in the old stories, always some drawback to spoil the magic gift.

But then it was light again. The car had passed over him and he was unharmed, to the amazement--and disappointment--of the avid crowd that had gathered.

“Pedestrians should look where they’re going,” the voice of the car observed petulantly. “Repairs cost money.”

Being part human, Emrys was shaken by the experience. His eye caught the brilliant sign of a bar. Here, he thought, would be syrup to soothe his nerves. And he went inside, eager to try the taste of ancient vintages of Earth--unobtainable on the other planets, since fine wines and liquors could not endure the journey through space.

He sipped a whisky and soda, trying not to feel disappointed at the savor. As he drank, he felt eyes upon him--the bartender’s. Yet the long Qesharakan reflecting glass above the bar showed him nothing unusual about his appearance. Did the bartender know who he was? How could he?

Then Emrys noticed that the man glanced from him to someone else--a girl sitting at the other end of the bar. As she met Emrys’ eye, she smiled at him. Absently, with remote appreciation of her good looks, he smiled back, then returned to the contemplation of his drink. The bartender’s expression deepened to amused contempt.

Emrys realized what was wrong and he could hardly keep from laughing. So intent had he been on the pursuit of his goal that he had almost lost sight of the goal itself. Deliberately, he turned his head and smiled at the girl. She promptly smiled back.

He sat down at her side. Now that he was close, her aquamarine hair showed dark at the roots, and, through the thick golden maquillage, the pores stood out on her nose. Also, she was not so very young. He laughed then, and, when she asked why, bought her a drink. After he had bought her several more, they went to her apartment--a luxurious one in a good section of town. She was not going to be cheap, but, he thought with rising anticipation, he could afford her.

However, the night was curiously unsatisfactory. For him--apparently not for the girl, because the next morning she indignantly refused his money. Evidently the experience had been something out of the ordinary for her. He could not feel it was her fault that it had been nothing for him; the lack was in him, he thought, some almost-felt emotion he could not recapture.

Promising to call her, he left, went back to his hotel room and flung himself upon the resilient burim-moss couch.

His body wasn’t tired, but his head ached wearily. The liquor, naturally, on an empty stomach ... after all those years of Morethan qumesht. And then the trip. Even with the Shortmire engines--standard equipment now, of course--it had taken a long, tiring time, for Morethis was the most distant of all the civilized planets. Anyone would be exhausted after such a trip. Added to all this, the accident. There were no bruises on his body yet, but later, he knew, they would be visible.

At last he slept, or seemed to, and dreamed he was on Morethis again--or Morethis was there with him. The air thickened about him into the tangible atmosphere of the dark planet--the swirling aniline fog that never cleared. And in the midst stood Uvrei, the high priest, robed in amethyst and sable. The term high priest was vulgar as applied to him, but the nearest terrestrial equivalent to what he was.

The lips in the shockingly beautiful face parted. “How goes it, son of my spirit?” the familiar greeting rolled out, in the familiar voice, deep yet sweet, like dulcet thunder.

“My head hurts, father of my soul.” Emrys knew his voice was a petulant child’s, yet he could not stop himself. “I was promised--”

“You have not taken care,” the ancient one said.

How ancient he was, Emrys did not know. The priests of Morethis were, they said, immortal. And they did live for a long, long time, far longer than the common people, whom they resembled only vaguely. Terrestrial scholars said the ruling class was a variant of the Morethan race, inbred to preserve its identity, probably closer to the original world-shaking Morethans than their debased followers. The members of this group seemed young, as coin faces seem young, also old, like coins themselves.

“I warned you it takes time for the final adjustments to be made. Wait, my son; haste means nothing to you.”

“But I’ve waited so long,” Emrys complained.

“Wait a little longer, then. You have all the time in the world.”

The fog swirled shut about him, and Emrys sank into his personal miasma of sleep. When he woke up, late that afternoon, he knew from the dank odor clinging to the bedclothes that it had not been a dream, that the priests, the “gods,” the “immortals” of Morethis could, as they professed--and even he had not believed them in this--project their minds far through space ... though, fortunately, not their bodies, or they would not have needed him. He remembered then the vial of tiny golden pellets Uvrei had given him before he left Morethis, and took one. Perhaps that was what the ancient one had meant. At any rate, Emrys thought he felt better afterward.