Title: Die, Shadow!
Author: Budrys, Algis
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Die, Shadow!" ***


                             DIE, SHADOW!

                            BY ALGIS BUDRYS

                 He began as a hero. Eons later and a
                universe away, he became instead a god!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1963.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


                                   I

_I've come a long, long way to die alone_, David Greaves thought as
_Defiance_ tumbled through the misty shroud of Venus, hopelessly torn
apart by the explosion in her engines. On the console in front of
him, the altimeter was one of the last few meaningful instruments,
and it told him there were only a few tortured miles remaining before
the ship he had brought this far--had spent his fortune in building
when no government would yet consider risking a manned rocket on his
flight--would smash down to its doom on a planet no man had ever walked.

Battered and tossed in his seat by the ship's crazy tumbling, Greaves
tensed the oak-hard muscles of his arms and thrust himself up to his
feet. He wasn't dead yet. He wasn't dead and, if the slim chance paid
off, he'd still be present to laugh in the government's face when the
first, safe, cautious official venture finally made its way across the
emptiness between Earth and the Sun's second planet.

Dragging himself from handhold to handhold, his tendons cracking with
the strain, he levered himself toward the Crash Capsule, forced open
its hatch and pulled himself through, while the winds of Venus tore at
the shattered hull and the scream of _Defiance's_ passage through the
murky sky rose to a savage howl.

Outside the cloud-lashed hull there were no stars. Below, no one knew
what sort of jungle, or sea, or desert of whipping poison sand might
lie in wait. Greaves had not cared when he set out, and did not care
now. If men had always waited to be sure, if all the adventurers of
mankind had waited until the sign-posts had gone up, the cave bears
would still be the dominant form of life on Earth, and races undreamed
of might never know such a thing as man to contest their sway over the
Universe.

_I'll live to see my share of that_, Greaves thought as he pulled
the capsule's hatch shut and dropped into the special padding that,
in theory, would cushion much of the impact. _Or else I'll know
I tried._ He tripped the lever that would flood the capsule with
Doctor Eckstrom's special anesthetic--the experimental compound that
might--just barely, might--offer a chance.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the hiss of the yellow-tinged, acrid gas became louder and louder
in his ears, David Greaves thought again of the almost obsessive
lengths to which he had gone in making sure that there would be such
a thing as the capsule. The entire project--the decision to build
the ship, to sacrifice for it the personal fortune he had built up
in his meteoric rise from obscurity to being one of the world's most
dynamic and certainly youngest industrialists--had been marked by his
fanatical persistence and dedication. But that dream had come first,
and the fortune second--the sole purpose of his career, from its very
beginnings when he was only another engineer test pilot, had simply
been to accumulate the means so _Defiance_ could be built. But the
ship had been three-quarters complete when he conceived the idea for
the capsule. He could not even now remember exactly when or how he had
decided that he must have some device aboard that would protect him
from a crash and--here was the vital thing he insisted upon--keep him
alive, no matter how injured, no matter how long might be necessary,
until rescuers could reach him.

For him to even think in terms of rescuers--of depending on others--was
totally uncharacteristic. For him to divert a major portion of his
dwindling resources from work on the ship itself, and push toward
the elaborate design of the capsule, was, in some lights, again
uncharacteristically foolish. But he had done it, and now....

... Now the anesthetic created by the man some said was a medical
genius and some said was a quack had flooded over him.

He could feel the first effect--the calm, the drowsy peace. By the time
the _Defiance_ smashed into the ground--very soon now--his metabolism
would have slowed to a carefully metered rate. It would take hours for
his heart to beat once. To him it would seem as if each day was only a
few minutes. The jagged nerve-flashes of pain would be only a faraway
slow tingle; the blink of an eye would encompass hours of actual time,
and he would lie here, safe, asleep, until the hatch was opened and he
was taken out into the air, where slowly the effects would wear off.

Meanwhile, there was more than enough gas compressed into the capsule's
tanks to keep him perfectly relaxed for a hundred years. The valve--a
simple device he had sketched out in five minutes, as if the design had
been part of his mind for years--would continue to meter out the supply
at the optimum rate and pressure.

It was only now--perhaps a hundred feet from impact, perhaps only a
hundred hairs-breadths--that he suddenly saw the flaw in the design.

He struggled to reach the valve, in a useless reflex, for there would
have been nothing he could have done, no matter how much time remained.
Then he fell back, a twisted grin on his face. _I've come a long,
long way to trap myself_, he laughed in his drowsing mind, as the
ship crashed, and the capsule, torn from _Defiance's_ side, rebounded
like a cannon shell from Heaven upon the outraged soil of Venus, and
the overhead clouds sprang into flamed reflection from the blast of
_Defiance's_ end.

In the capsule, the valve controlling the flow from the illogically
copious supply of anesthetic snapped off cleanly. David Greaves' lungs
jolted to the impact as a century's dosage of the high-pressure gas
delivered its one giant hammerblow of sleep.... Of sleep like death....

Of sleep so slow, so majestic, that only the eternally ageless body
might testify to life. Of sleep without end, without motion, until....


                                  II

The woman--the sensuous ivory-skinned woman with eyes like dark jewels
and hair like midnight framing her red-lipped face--kissed him again
and then drew back to touch his cheek.

"Wake," she whispered softly. "Wake, sleeper."

David Greaves looked up at her through slowly dawning eyes. The scent
of spices was in his nostrils. As the woman's hair brushed his face
again, the fragrance increased.

"My name is David Greaves," he said, and looked up at the sky and then
around him.

There was now no envelope of cloud to hide the face of this planet
from the Sun; no such shroud as had concealed the Venus of his day in
dazzling white without and muffled it in somber black within. This sky
was ruddy, ruddy with the light of the day's last moments, and the
clouds through which the sunset burned were only crayon-strokes of
ochre across the orange sky.

He lay in state, facing that sunset, on some sort of black metal couch
which supported him on a multitude of sweeping, back-bent arms.
Beneath him, a dozen low broad steps of olive-green polished stone led
down to a long forum, flagged with the same gold-veined, masterfully
fitted paving. Around the court ran a low wall, again of stone;
friezed, and burnished to a dull glow. From the wall, tall slim pillars
thrust into the air.

And atop each pillar, cast and carved in black metal washed by the
lingering light, crouched a monster.

No single artist could have created such a bestiary of gargoyles. Some
he could trace in their evolution--the vulpine, the crustacean, the
insectile. Fangs and pincers slit the cool, invigorating breeze that
flowed over the court. Antennae quivered and hummed in the air, and a
myriad legs were poised in tension, forever prepared to leap. Others
were beyond any creation he knew of--limbs and wings contorted into
shapes that had, undoubtedly, been taken by living things ... in lives
unimaginable to any man. And all of them, imaginable or not, faced
toward him forever.

At the foot of each pillar, mounted in a cresset on the wall at its
base, burned a torch. And so, when night fell, then the shadows of all
these monsters would be cast upward onto the stars, and he would lie
sleeping in the pooled light of the torches, while all around him these
creatures stood watch.

How many nights had he lain here? How many centuries to wash the fog
of sleep out of every nook and cranny of his lungs, when each breath
might take a thousand years--ten thousand?

       *       *       *       *       *

But he was not done with studying his surroundings. He had heard sound
when he turned his head. Now the sound was a rising murmur as he lifted
his shoulders to look down the length of the court of monsters toward
the far end. There were people there. They had been seated on stone
tiers that rose up toward a colonnaded temple. There he could see an
altar through the open sides and, on that altar, a flame that burned
bright and unwinking against the outline of the lowering Sun.

The people were rising to their feet. From them came an open-throated
murmur that became a cry of savage joy--of unbearable tension finding
release.

"Who are they?" he asked the woman as he sat up and felt his body
stretch with power cramped too long, as he squared back his shoulders
and peered through the twilight in the court of monsters.

"Your worshippers, David Greaves," she said, standing beside him among
the many arms of his couch. "The people whose last hope you are." She
added softly: "My name, though you did not ask, is Adelie." She paused.
"I, too, am one of your worshippers. Wherever there are human beings,
throughout the Universe, you are worshipped."

He looked at her more closely. There was a lift to one black-winged
eyebrow that was less reverent than a god might like, though a man
could have no quarrel with it. She stood gracefully on sandaled feet,
dressed in a single white garment girdled around her waist by a belt
made of the same metal in which the monsters were cast. He saw that
the clasp was shaped into a profile of his own face. And he saw from
the wear that it showed that it was old--older than she could be,
older perhaps than this court. This ... shrine? He wondered how many
priestesses had worn that belt.

How many of _his_ priestesses.

He frowned and got down, feeling the touch of the day-warmed stone on
his bare feet. He was dressed, he saw, in a black kilt and nothing
else. He returned his glance to the worshippers and saw that the men
were dressed similarly, and that the women wore flowing, calf-length,
translucently light robes like Adelie's.

There was motion at one corner of his eye, and he turned his head
sharply to see the arms of the couch sweeping down, folding and bending
against its sides. Now he saw that he had been cradled in the arms of a
great black metal beast. It crouched atop the dais. Its head was bent
supplicatingly, bright oily metal barely visible at the joinings of its
mechanical body.

He glanced quickly up at the monsters atop their columns. "Are they all
like that?" he asked Adelie.

An old man's gruff voice answered him from the other side of the
beast-couch. "They won't spring down to devour you--you needn't be
afraid of _that_." Two men came into view, one old, one young and very
slim. The old one rapped the couch with his knuckles. "This tended you
in your sleep. It is made in the shape of the most ferocious race that
ever rivaled Man. It is now extinct--as are all those others up there,
for the same reason."

The thin young man--very pale, very long of limb--stretched his broad,
tight mouth into a smile that covered half his face without mirth.
"_Not_ the most ferocious, Vigil."

"Your kind will learn about that," the old man snapped.

"Not from you and yours," the slim man said lightly.

Greaves turned to Adelie, who waited, poised, while old Vigil and the
young man quarreled. "Tell me the situation," Greaves said.

Adelie's lips parted. But the old man interrupted.

"The situation is that you have been awakened needlessly and would best
go back to sleep at once. My daughter and these fanatical sheep--"
he waved an angry arm at the standing worshippers--"have forced me
to permit this. But in fact Humanity neither needs you nor wants you
awake."

"Oh, on the contrary," the young man said. "Humanity needs its gods
very badly at this hour. But you are only a man, not so?"

Greaves looked from one to the other--the leather-skinned old man
with his mop of ringleted white hair, the young one who was human in
appearance but somehow claimed some other status. "Who are you two?"

"I am Vigil, your guardian, and this is--"

"I am Mayron of The Shadows," the young man said, and he held himself
as carelessly as before, but his face looked directly into Greaves's.
"See my eyes."

There was nothing there. Only darkness speckled by pinpoints of light;
thick, sooty darkness like oil smoke, and sharp lights that burned
through it without illuminating it.

"Mayron that was First of Men," Vigil said bitterly.

"Mayron that is First of Shadows," the empty-skinned thing replied
proudly, and began to weep great, black tears that soon emptied it,
so that the skin drooped down into a huddle on the pave and a black
cloud in the shape of a man stood sparkling in the dusk before Greaves.
"Mayron that will again be First of Men, when all men are shadows.
Mayron that is already First of many men. And which of us is a god,
David Greaves?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Adelie's face glowed with excitement. Her red lips were parted
breathlessly. The crowd on the tiers had loosed a great, wailing moan,
which hung over the court of conquered monsters as the first stars
became visible on the far horizon.

Greaves took a deep breath. He could feel his body tensing itself, the
muscles rippling, as though his hide needed comfort.

"Which of us is a god, man?" Mayron repeated softly, his voice coming
from the entire cloud. "What is it you can do against me, you whose
entire virtue rests on doing nothing?"

"That would depend on what was expected of me at this moment," Greaves
said.

"This moment?" Mayron chuckled. "At _this_ moment, nothing."

"In that case, get out of my court and come back when there's something
to do."

Mayron laughed, throwing his head back, the laughter high and insolent.
"How like a god! How very like the real thing."

Greaves frowned. "If you were a man, once, you might remember how that
feels." But the laugh had bothered him.

"Oh, I remember, I remember. And tomorrow we fight, man." Laughing,
Mayron bent and picked up the skin he had discarded. He crumpled
it by the waist in one fist, and brandished it negligently at the
worshippers. They shrank back with a moan of horror as he strode toward
the far wall. At the wall, he flipped the white, fluttering thing over,
and as a cloud passed through the stone. Perhaps on the other side he
put on his human form again. Greaves could not tell. The sun was down,
and only a little light glowed on the far horizon. The torches guttered
in the court of monsters, and the worshippers were hurrying up the
steps, out through the temple and away.


                                  III

Greaves, Adelie and Vigil stood beside the beast-couch. "All right,"
Greaves said. "Now there are things I want to know, and I want no
quarrels, Vigil."

"And by what right do you order me around?" the old man growled. "You
may be a god to some, but you are not _my_ god."

"You owe it to me, atheist. If I was awakened today, at this pat
moment, I could have been awakened before. I wasn't. You kept me
asleep, guardian, when I could have been free as any other man. So you
owe me."

The old man grunted. "You're brave with Mayron and brave with me. But
all men are brave, each in his own way. We need no gods."

"But you have one."

Adelie touched his arm. "You have lived from the beginning of human
history. And you were a great hero. That much the legends tell us. You
were braver than any man, and for your bravery, you could not die.
While other heros conquered the stars and, in their time, died, you
lived on. While enemy after enemy was beaten by Man, and the victorious
men died, you lived on. The stars and all worlds became ours. Men loved
and begat, and men died, but you lived on. It seemed to us that as long
as you lived, all men would have something to remember--how great Man
is; what the reward of courage can be. It seemed only fitting that we
should bring to you the trophies of our achievements. It seemed only
right to believe that you had survived to some purpose--that a day
would come when Man would need his greatest hero."

"Precisely," Vigil snorted. "Man worships nothing but himself. You were
a convenient symbol. It did no harm. It may have done some good. Of
course, the chuckleheads took it all literally. And so--thanks to Man's
stupid persistence in breeding idiots as well as men with some brains,
you, whoever you are, whatever kind of filibustering bravo you actually
were, have become the focus of a cult populated by the credulous, the
neurotic and those who profit by them. I hope you are grateful for your
legacy!"

Greaves looked up at the stars. There were some constellations that
might have been the ones he knew, distorted by his transit to another
viewpoint ... or by time. He was no astronomer.

_I've come a long way_, he thought, _and I wonder what the end of it
will be._ "Those who profit from the credulous, hmm?" he said to Vigil.

"I am your guardian and I guarded you. As many others have done before
me, from various motives. This is not your first court, nor your tenth.
The ritual around you is compounded from thousands of years of hogwash,
as witness my worshipful daughter who inherits a post from some time
when every venturing hero had to have a leman patiently awaiting his
return. My duties no doubt were originally medical. But the couch
has been attending to that--with some exceptions--for centuries. And
you may be assured, Man's history has not been one unbroken triumph,
nor his civilization any steady upward climb. But we built while you
slumbered. I had thought to prevent your besmirching Man's greatness
with your cheap legend."

"Or perhaps he was afraid of the god he denies," Adelie murmured, her
eyes glowing warmly.

Greaves looked from her to her father. "So she believes in me and you
do not," he said to Vigil. "But it may be you're not entirely sure--and
from the looks she gives me, it may be she isn't, either." He grinned
crookedly. "Man may have climbed, but I assure you he hasn't changed."

       *       *       *       *       *

He smiled at the looks on both their faces. Divinity was new to him,
but humanity was not. If these two had thought perhaps they had some
dull-witted barbarian here--the one for his faith in his faithlessness,
the other for her pleasures--it had been time their error was corrected.

"Old man, god or not I have been called out ... whether it pleases you
or not. And I won't willingly lay me down to sleep again until _I_
think it's time. So you had better tell me what all this is about, or I
will blunder around and perhaps break something you're fond of."

Adelie laughed.

Vigil swung his arm sharply toward her. "This--this would-be courtesan
was once Mayron's great love, when he was First of us all. Because he
could find nothing to conquer for her in all the Universe, he began
dabbling beyond it for a worthy prize. And he found it. Oh, he found
it, didn't he, my child?"

"Be careful, Father," Adelie spat. "The worshippers follow _me_ now
that I've wakened him as promised, and you--"

"Quiet," Greaves said mildly. "He was telling me something."

"That I was," Vigil said angrily, while his daughter's look at Greaves
was the least sure it had ever been, "and for all the need you have
of it, I might as well not. But if I may say it once and get it said,
I can then go to my meal and the two of you will be free to amuse
yourselves. Mayron discovered the Shadows, when his machines touched
some continuum beyond this one, and the Shadows ate him. But like the
fox that lost his tail in the trap and then cozened other foxes with
the lie that it was better so and fashionable besides, Mayron made a
virtue of his slavery. Those who give themselves up to the Shadows
never rest and never hunger. They know no barrier. And no love. No
true joy. No noble sorrow. An untailed fox is safe from catching by
the tail. A Shadow has no spirit, no humanity, no--soul. But there are
always dunderheads. Mayron has them, and down in that city of his down
there--" the old man waved a hand at the horizon, but all Greaves could
see from where he stood were the glowing tops of what he took to be
three fitfully active volcanoes--"he has a city full of dunderheaded
shadows who go to some temple he has built and enter the Shadow chamber
to be changed. The admission is easily gained; the price of freedom
from human care is humanity."

"And up here," Greaves said, "other dunderheads come to gain what in
exchange for what?"

"Gain at least some sort of affirmation at the cost of remaining men!"
the old man growled. "If they are simple, at least they are human! And
even an intelligent man can see the value in what is embodied here."

"As witness yourself. Yes."

"_I_ didn't want to wake you! We know enough so you could have been
awakened centuries ago. But to what purpose? To turn another hooligan
loose to upset civilization, and lose the symbol of that precious
thing? When Man himself can rescue himself? But, no, _this_ one, this
superstition-ridden tramp I wish I'd strangled in her cradle--_she_
stirred the worshippers up, she arranged the combat between yourself
and Mayron, she--"

"When and where?"

"What?"

"This fight Mayron and you have both spoken of."

"Tomorrow at noon. In the city. But there's no need for it. Tomorrow
Mayron dies, and the other Shadows die. You can watch or not--as long
as you stay out of the way."

Greaves looked at Adelie. "Your daughter, Vigil, does not look much
impressed."

"Impressed! Impressed!" The old man was very nearly dancing with rage.
"I'll _show_ you! Come with me." Vigil turned without looking back
and pattered rapidly down the steps of the dais, his calloused feet
slapping indignantly on the time-buffed stones.

Greaves frowned after him. Then he jerked his head to Adelie. "Come
on," he said and they, too, walked quickly down the length of the
court of the conquered monsters. And for the first time since their
creation the pillared gargoyles did not have to bear the sight of Man.

       *       *       *       *       *

The scent of Adelie's fragrance was in Greaves nostrils again as they
followed the old man through the temple, past the altar where the
eternal flame burned bright enough to sting. He said nothing to her.
She volunteered no words of her own. But she walked close enough to
brush his thigh with hers. Greaves smiled appreciatively.

Vigil led them to a small chamber in one wing of the temple. He flung
open the door with a clatter of bolts in a concealed lock, and pointed
inside. "Look--the two of you. It's not just Mayron who can dabble with
machines. For every clever man, there is another just as clever."

A gun of green metal was mounted on a pedestal in the center of the
chamber. Slim and graceful as a wading bird with one extended leg, it
poised atop its mount and sang quietly of power and intent to kill. The
friezed walls of the chamber hummed in harmonic response to the idle
melody of the gun. Greaves felt his hackles rising unreasonably, and he
very nearly growled with outrage at the sight of it.

"Tomorrow at noon," Vigil said in a high, triumphant voice, "the weapon
will be swung to point through that window and down upon Mayron's city.
And when it is done, there will not be a single Shadow alive down
there."

Greaves walked to the window in the chamber's far wall and looked down.
But it was dark below; nothing to mark the outlines of a city as cities
had been in the time he remembered. The temple apparently stood atop a
high hill, with the city in a great valley at its foot, but again all
Greaves could see were three glowing mountaintops across the way, and,
beyond them, the night sky.

Then suddenly one of the volcanos flared for an instant, and the few
overhead clouds reflected redly down into the valley.

Greaves caught his breath. The city had emerged black and immense,
extending for miles, its lightless towers like the spine-bones of a
beast half-eaten and rotting in a tidal pool. Then the light was gone,
and once again there was nothing visible down there--if the undead
beast had chosen to bestir itself and stealthily move on some errand of
the night, no one standing here could have known until it was too late.

"So that's the city of the Shadows," Greaves said.

"The city that was once the First City of Man," Vigil said bitterly.
"That Mayron has made into an outpost of Hell. Where no man dares live;
where they say that those with Shadows, once they were in sufficient
number, dragged women and children into the Chamber of Shadows so
that their men, heart-broken, joined them when their Shadow-children
returned to plead with them."

"And this gun of yours is going to do what to them?" he asked.

"Kill them."

"I know that. How?" Greaves stared at the old man through narrowing
eyes.

"A beam of power, made of the stuff that spins within all things--the
pure force of this continuum."

"You mean this thing is some kind of particle emitter--an electron or
photon gun?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Our science need not concern itself with crudities like names,
barbarian. This gun was made as a song or a poem is made--in the mind
of a man who dreams weapons where another man might dream bridges ...
and when the gun finds its fruition, tomorrow when Mayron expects no
mightier enemy than you, then the beam will sweep that city, and when
it stops Mayron's city will be a tomb for empty skins. And Man will
build another First City, and those who fled shall have a place again,
and--"

"Who built--who _dreamed_--this piece of ironmongery?" Greaves growled.
"Who was the poet--you?"

"Yes! Why not? Do you think because I am an old man--"

"A heedlessly spiteful one who hasn't stopped to think."

"Stopped to think! _Look!_" Vigil seized the torch at the doorway and
lifted it high. "Did you think I wasn't sure? That the weapon has not
been tested?"

Now Greaves could see why the gun sang rather than rested in quiet
patience. A Shadow hung against the far wall, supported by its
out-stretched arms, its hands sunken wrist-deep in the stone. And
though it jerked its legs and struggled feebly to be free, the
hands remained trapped. Under the sound of the idling gun, he could
distinguish a quiet, thin, whimpering.

Adelie laughed softly to herself.

Vigil crowed: "He cannot move--what little strength remains to him is
needed for bare existence ... if I were to touch that control--

"The weapon is at its lowest setting--it has incomparably more power
than that; it has the power of all the Universe in it--and look what it
can do when it is barely tapped in to its source of power!"

Greaves rumbled in his throat. Suddenly the gun's song was more than
he could stand. He barely seemed to move, but Vigil had time to shout,
the outraged cry beginning to echo in the chamber when suddenly there
came the snap of rending metal, and a choked stammer from the gun.
And then Greaves had the gun in his hands, completely torn from its
pedestal. He threw it out into the night in a bright flash of fire that
bathed them all in a thunderclap of light. Greaves stared after it,
his teeth bared, the horrid sound of his hatred still rumbling within
him. When that had dwindled, leaving him with his heavy chest heaving
for air, the trapped Shadow had vanished, no doubt to tell Mayron that
Humanity's godling had gone insane.

Adelie was very pale. Vigil was trying to speak.

And that from the old man was enough to bring back the first scarlet
edge of the fury he had turned on the gun.

"Close your mouth!" Greaves commanded him. "I have to go fight Mayron
tomorrow, and I don't want another word out of you. Go find something
useless to do. Adelie, I want a bath, some food and drink. Right now!"


                                  IV

During the night, he asked Adelie: "I'm supposed to fight him with my
hands, is that it? Or with simple weapons of some kind? And this will
prove to the worshippers all over the Universe or to the Shadows that
either my or Mayron's way of life is right?"

"Yes," she said. "And you _are_ very strong. I'm sure you will win. I
was sure when I suggested it to Mayron. He's so completely confident--I
knew I could trick him into it."

Later, he asked her: "Tell me--was there a famous weapon poet in First
City?" And he took her hand, not letting go of it. When she asked him,
once, hesitantly, why he had broken the gun, he answered honestly:
"Because it seemed hateful." And other than that, they said very little
to each other during that night, and whatever they did say had about
as much truth in it as all the things they had said or he had been
told from the first moment of his awakening. He did not sleep. For one
thing, he felt no need of it. For another, he was frightened. He did
not want to be a Shadow....

In the morning he had forgotten fear. Steps led from the temple to a
pathway that wound down toward the city. He stood for a moment at their
head, with the altar burning behind him, and then stepped out into the
morning, with Adelie and Vigil following.

There were people waiting out there. They lined the path, murmuring
among themselves. As he strode along they fell in behind him, leaving
behind the temporary shelters they had put up when they fled from the
city and took refuge here.

"Sheep," Vigil snorted as he padded through the dust beside Greaves.
"All right, _let_ them see you brought down. I'll make another gun--if
your stupidity hasn't robbed me of the time I need--and then they'll
see...."

"I'm sure that if I lose today, Mayron will give you all the time you
need. Maybe he'll even send that same Shadow poet back to you with
whatever story you'll believe this time."

"What--?" Vigil stammered.

"What did he tell you? That he would create the gun for you because he
hated the Shadows, even though he was a Shadow? Did he tell you how
he remembered how fine it was to be a man? Is _that_ the story you
believed? You simple, credulous murderer! And you repaid him by testing
it on him. As he well suspected you might. It's not only humans who can
be brave. Or sacrifice themselves for the ferocity of their race. Or
were you too busy taking Humanity's name in vain to ever consider that?
_You_ never dreamed that gun. Not you--you may be foolish, but you
don't hate this Universe."

Vigil was blinking at him. "What--?"

Adelie laughed. "Last night, father. He asked me about weapon poets.
There's no use trying to lie out of it."

Greaves smiled at her. "That's right. I asked you, and from that moment
on you knew I was cleverer than Mayron thinks. But you never got away
to tell him that, did you? You know," he said thoughtfully, "you'd
better hope I win today. Mayron won't be too fond of you if I give him
any more shocks."

Adelie grinned. "I thought of that. But if you win, he dies. And if you
die...?"

"You will have had your glory anyway? You will have engineered the
battle of the gods, and dabbled in other pleasures, too?" Greaves was
still smiling, but Adelie's eyes grew wider. "Maybe it'll be that
simple, Adelie. But who can tell the minds of gods, hmm?"

And so David Greaves strode into the city of Shadows, followed by a
fearful multitude and two badly shaken people. He walked down a broad
avenue at whose end something black bulked and glimmered, while things
with black-filled eyes stood watching thin-lipped. And as he walked he
showed none of his fear.

       *       *       *       *       *

He stopped at the end of the avenue, with the tall towers looming over
him, and stood facing the Temple of Shadows. There was no sign of life
in the square black opening that served as a door for the featureless
stone block, dark but not as dark as a Shadow.

He threw back his head and called: "Mayron!"

The worshippers huddled around him. Vigil, like them, was throwing
anxious looks over his shoulders as the city's Shadows crowded closer.

Adelie murmured: "There he is."

And he was, trotting lightly down the steps, smiling. He wore his human
skin as naturally as if it were more than a cloak, and Greaves had to
look hard to see that when he smiled his lips stretched but no teeth
showed.

"Well, Man in all your pride. Are you ready?"

"Ready as any man. How do you propose to go about this?"

"Adelie didn't tell you?"

"She told me as much as I asked. I didn't ask much. Could you suggest
any way I could have refused the conditions, no matter what they are?
That loses the fight right there. Wasn't I supposed to understand that?
Do you think politics is a recent invention?"

"Fierce, fierce," Mayron murmured. "Well spoken." He chuckled. "When I
was a man, I would have liked you."

"Get to the business, Mayron."

The Shadow held up his hand. "Not so fast. Perhaps we can arrive at
some--"

"Arrive at nothing. Put up or shut up. Vigil no longer has that
monstrous gun and there's no point in this for you today. But there is
for _me_, and you don't have much time to realize that." He glowered
at the Shadow, feeling the rage, feeling the onrush of the bright white
exaltation when the body moves too fast for the brain to speak, when
what directs the body is the reflex founded on the silent knowledge of
the brain's deep layers, where the learning has no words.

Mayron frowned. His head was cocked to one side. If he had had eyes, he
would have been peering at Greaves' face. But he said nothing; he had
lost the moment, and now Greaves used it.

"You scum," Greaves said, his voice booming through the Temple square
for all the Shadows to hear. "A weapon that drains the power of this
continuum! You leech--you would have had that doddering old man put all
my stars out!"

And now the moment was at its peak, and Greaves screamed with rage, so
that the faces of the towers were turned into sounding boards and the
shout crackled in the air like thunder. He jumped forward, one sweeping
arm tossing Mayron out of his way and flailing for balance, while
Greaves sprang into the Temple and charged the Chamber of Shadows.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now the fear--the great devouring fear that came like fangs in
his belly but did not stop him. Now the fear as he burst through the
acolytes and into the black, light-shot sphere that quivered at the
focus of Mayron's machine. And he stood there, feeling the suck not of
one voracious universe but many--all the universes that had eaten the
over-curious Mayron and sent back a Judas goat in his skin to conquer
what belonged to Man. Feeling the icy cold, and the energy-hunger that
could suck Man's Universe dry and still leave a hunger immeasurable.

But the rage--the rage that came to him, that came to the god uncounted
generations of men had made while David Greaves lay sleeping but
his deepest mind lay awake, feeling, feeling the faith, knowing the
splendor of what Man had done--The rage that could make a god, that
could give a creature like David Greaves the power to create, to dream
a man--to make a David Greaves who would lie waiting, ready to become a
god....

That rage went forth.

And in parallel continuums of life unimaginable, the dawn of Apocalypse
burst upon suns unnameable and worlds unheard-of--upon all the
universes which were the true Shadows. The god who was David Greaves
again, when the rage had passed--that image which Man himself had made
stood blazing his fury in the Chamber of Shadows, and the Universe of
Man was free and safe. But in the places of the Shadows there was no
hope, no joy, no place of refuge. Mankind was come forth, and galaxies
were dying.

One last snap of the fangs--one moment when the death-spurred Shadows
almost had their greatest prize of all--and then it was over. Greaves
turned and strode out of the blasted Chamber, and the acolytes cowered,
covering their eyes, not yet realizing that once more they had eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

David Greaves appeared on the temple steps, and began walking slowly
down, his legs shaking with exhaustion. Adelie watched him coming
toward her. Around her, Shadows that had once been men were men again,
but at her feet Mayron lay without his skin, and though her father
had fled, she did not dare go without learning what the look on David
Greaves' face meant for her.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Die, Shadow!" ***

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