Zolan walked into Brad's office and dropped into
a chair, clearly exhausted.
"How'd it go?"
"Couple of dozen screen generators in position
sunside," Zolan hefted a small, flat control in his
hand as he spoke, then tossed it on the desk.
"The energizer," he said quietly.
Brad turned the control in his hands as he examined
each safety lock. He slipped the control into a
pocket.
"Narval leaves for the conference in a few hours,"
he said, almost in a whisper. He could not hide his
deep sadness.
They rose and walked together toward the door.
Without speaking, Zolan left and disappeared around
a bend in the corridor.
The hour of Narval's departure brought a whirl of
excitement to Coldfield. The transit strip from the
official residence to the President's air lock had
been stopped, scrubbed clean, and a padded chair
installed on it for Narval's comfort.
Narval boarded the strip, accompanied by his
personal guards. The guards took protective
positions ahead, behind, and along the strip's
edges, completely surrounding their leader. The
strip began to move and maintained a slow, steady
pace until Narval was abreast the air lock; it came
to a smooth stop.
The air lock had been decorated with flags and
bunting; a red carpet extended from the strip to
the air lock. Narval swept in and passed through
the inner compartment.
The Revenge, Narval's luxurious spunnel yacht was
moored to pylons above the air lock. The yacht's
commander, Captain Ras Hamdia, stood stiffly at
the head of a line of ship's officers inside its portal.
A set of taut, parallel cables rose from the air
lock to the ship. Fastened to the cables at the
surface, Narval's personal red and black lift
capsule was ready to transfer him aloft without
the inconvenience of donning a space suit.
Narval entered the lift with an officer who dogged
the doors and flashed the ready signal.
"Up, easy," the ship's captain ordered.
The lift rose slowly until it reached the Revenge's
portal. An articulated crane grasped the cabin
gently, drew it inboard along slackened cables and
lowered it to a mobile platform. Suited technicians
dashed forward to disengage the cables, and the
capsule was pushed inside.
Narval safely aboard, space tugs encircled
the Revenge and took positions along its hull.
Mag-beams flashed across. The Revenge disengaged
from the mooring tower and drifted off. The tugs
nudged it along to a hundred kay above the dome,
cut their mass-attractors and the ship disappeared
into the node of the Planet Pluto Spunnel.
Narval was off to his destiny.
##
Zolan stood among a throng of space-suited citizens
below the Revenge, from where he watched it
ascend and move off. Minutes later, none but Zolan
remained.
Aware of his awesome responsibility, a sense of
serenity in the power of his will suffused Zolan's
being. He had been faithful to the science and art
of his chosen profession, and his devotion to the
Sentinels' mission had enriched his harmony with
all about him. It had come to this.
Tilting his head back in the clear plastic helmet
of his suit, Zolan watched the Revenge enter the
spunnel node. He lost interest and headed for a
space taxi.
Climbing aboard, he punched in his identifier code
and the coordinates for a tunnel warehouse fifty
kay distant where he had a clearance on file. The
taxi digested the data, reported to its master
control inside Coldfield, and received the required
permission. The taxi rose briskly in a tight turn
and accelerated toward a range of low hills.
Out of sight beyond a hillock, Zolan reached
into the circuitry behind the instrument panel,
manipulated connections, and punched in new
coordinates. The taxi paused and aligned to the
new course, Zolan's hands on its manual controls.
The advance notification to control center was
inoperative.
Charon grew in size up ahead as the taxi
approached. Zolan stabilized the flitter to hover
stationary barely a meter above the frozen methane.
As he disembarked, Zolan reached behind the
instrument panel and readjusting the circuits.
Transmissions from the taxi's computer would
soon resume and indicate a routine return from the
previously entered destination. Zolan watched the
taxi out of sight.
The distant tiny sphere that formed the solar Sun
was a wonder to behold against the black velvet sky
and the clusters of distant galaxies. He absorbed
once more the splendor of the planets in their
graceful courses around the giver of life. He
recalled and visualized each planet, natural and
artificial satellite and space station out to the
Guardians. He had roamed among them all; they
were the only home he had known.
A sense of weariness seemed to overpower him; he
could not delay. He searched the heavens for a star
with which to orient himself. Finding it, he faced
the direction wherein lay the secret spunnel
booster through which he would send his message.
Ram would know how it had come, what it meant,
and what it had cost.
Zolan cleansed his mind, except for the message.
He closed his eyes and the strength of his
concentration brought on trance. A tiny glow,
deeply embedded in his subconscious, mushroomed
into a pulsing network of charged filaments. His
arms and legs throbbed, and the pain of furies cut
through his torpor and slowly drained him of life
force. In milliseconds, his face shrunk and seamed,
and his body collapsed in on itself. The filaments
in Zolan's brain crackled and snapped. His brain
exploded inside his skull as the message burst out.
The rigid suit held his body erect, arms extended
toward the Sun.
Standing on the stark and lifeless plain Ram's
state-of-the-art modification to Zolan's brain
and mind had completed its task.