The Celestial Steam Locomotive (The Song of Earth) by Michael G. Coney Read Free Book Online Page B

moment Zozula thought about the Mole’s thoughts and the form they might take—and the germ of an idea took shape in his mind.  
    He said, “Help me carry him up the ladder.”  
     
     
     

 
The Dying Goddess
     
    After Zozula had settled Lord Shout and the Mole into their quarters, he made his way to the relaxation room. Three of the Cuidadors sat there, and the dead echo of long silence was in the air. Zozula sat down on a golden couch, not knowing what was going on.  
    Eulalie said finally, an edge of horror in her voice, “I’m dying. That’s what you’re afraid to tell me, isn’t it?” She had risen. Now she walked to the window and looked down at the clouds, looked up at the brightness of the late afternoon sky, pale gray through the age-darkened glass. She couldn’t look at Zozula.  
    Ebus, the Dome physician, said, “There are some more tests I could make.” “How long do I have?” She swung round. Ebus hesitated, glanced at Zozula, who was still sitting and gazing at his wife and companion of many centuries, uncomprehending. How can you comprehend death, when you live that long? Ebus said, “Maybe a week.”  
    “A week? There’s been a mistake, Ebus.” The horror had become desperation in her voice. “I’ve practiced my Inner Think religiously, every morning. I’ve never been so in tune with myself. I feel fine, except for... Look at me!”  
    They looked. It was not easy to believe Eulalie was dying. Tall and beautiful, she wore a long white dress of Grecian style; her hair, likewise, was long.  
    Over the millennia the Keepers had come to dress like the gods their charges considered them to be. There was scarcely a line on her face, her neck was pale and smooth, no veins marred the delicacy of her hands.  
    “We keep up appearances,” murmured Ebus. Why should he remind her that the Inner Think was not perfect because humans were not perfect; that concentration lapsed, cells were missed; that the thinking areas of the brain were themselves the most difficult to revitalize? She knew all that.  
    An hour later they were able to face the situation more reasonably. Ebus now went to the heart of the matter. “This doesn’t give us long to find a replacement,” he said.  
    “Ebus!” Zozula was outraged. He glanced at Eulalie. She met his look with understanding and sympathy. He and she were different from the others. They were throwbacks. Like Manuel, they knew love.  
    And now, born of love, an idea slipped into Zozula’s mind.  
    “There’s one way out, if you can bring yourself to take it,” he said quietly. “Those happenings in Dream Earth—who’s to say they’re less real than what happens out here? It’s a logical little world in the computer—up to a point—with its own rules. If you could bear the change, it’s possible that we could program your brain-patterns into the Rainbow and hook you up to a spare host.”  
    So much for Zozula’s high principles. An hour ago he’d spoken about the Cuidador’s duty to the Dream People and the impossibility of finding room for the Mole because it would mean erasing a neotenite’s mind. Now, in shock and grief, he was suggesting doing just that.  
    They watched Eulalie. She took a peach from a bowl and bit into it, savoringly, as though it were the last thing she would ever do.  
    “So I would live on as a Dream Person, with one of those bodies?” she asked calmly.  
    “I’d be able to visit you, of course,” said Zozula quickly. “Maybe your real body wouldn’t be very pleasant, but that’s immaterial. You could Bigwish yourself into whatever Dream form you chose. Your present form, if you wanted.”  
    And Eulalie was tempted, let there be no mistake about that. When a person has lived as long as she had, even the unthinkable can seem better than dying. She thought for a long time before replying. “Thank you, Zo. But that would only be dragging things out. My time’s arrived, and I’ll accept it.