Robert Sawyer - Far-Seer

“Afsan, it’s glorious,” said Cadool, his voice full of wonder. “Banners are snapping in the breeze, red for Lubal, blue for Belbar, green for Katoon, yellow for Hoog, and purple for Mekt. It’s like a rainbow. And those who own copies have the Book of Rites held high in their right hands, in plain view. No more secret worship! The time has come.”

“For what?” For the first time in days, Afsan felt panic because he could not see. “Cadool, the time has come for what?”

“For the religion of the hunt to rise again!” Cadool’s words were almost drowned out by the approaching din. “Afsan, they’re here, they’re hailing you. Five hundred left hands are raised in the salute of Lubal—”

“The what?”

“The hand gesture! They’re greeting you! Afsan, return the sign! Return it!”

“But I don’t remember it—”

“Quickly!” said Cadool. He felt the butcher’s hand on his, manipulating his fingers. “Retract this claw, and this one. Good. Now, raise your hand. Yes! Press your thumb against your palm—!”

The crowd went wild, Afsan heard his name shouted over and over again.

“They all want to see you,” said Cadool. He barked something at someone in the crowd. Afsan heard heavy claws move across the stones. Hot breath was on his face. “Here’s a shovelmouth. Climb onto its back.”

Afsan knew these beasts well. They were commonly hunted by Pack Carno and occasionally domesticated. Adults were perhaps three times his own body length, brown, with pebbly hides, strange crests atop their heads (the shape varying from species to species), and mouths that ended in wide, flat prows. They could walk on two legs, but usually ambled about on all four.

“Here,” said Cadool. “Let me help you.” Afsan felt one hand upon him, then another, and, a moment later, a third and a fourth. His heart pounded at the strange touches.

“Don’t worry,” said a female voice he knew well. “It’s me, Tetex.”

They boosted him onto the creature’s back, and Afsan wrapped his arms around its short neck. The thing’s body expanded and contracted beneath him, and he could hear a faint whistling as the air moved through the long chambers of its head crest.

Unable to see, Afsan felt dizzy.

Suddenly the beast’s flank shook, and Afsan realized that Cadool or Tetex had slapped its side, prodding it. The shovelmouth rose up on its hind legs, lifting Afsan into the air. It had a small saddle strapped to its back, and Afsan anchored his feet into that, so that he stood straight, in line with the animal’s neck. Once the lifting had stopped, and his vertigo had begun to pass, he dared unwrap his left arm from the neck and repeated the Lubalite hand sign. The crowd cheered him on.

“The One has arrived!”

“Long live Afsan!”

“Long live the hunters!”

Afsan wished he could see them. It was all a mistake, of course, but it felt good—like basking in the sun after a satisfying meal—to be wanted by someone, anyone, after all he’d been through. He managed to find his voice and said, so softly that only the first row of onlookers could hear, “Thank you.”

“Talk to us!” shouted a female’s voice.

“Tell us how you unmasked the false prophet!” demanded a male.

Unmasked the false prophet? thought Afsan. “I merely saw things Larsk did not,” he said.

“Louder!” said Cadool. “They all want to hear.”

Afsan spoke up. “My training allowed me to see things that eluded Larsk.”

“They called you a demon!” came a voice from far away.

“But it was Larsk who was the demon,” shouted another. “It was he who lied in the daylight!”

Afsan felt his stomach churning. Such words… “No,” he said, now raising his hand in a call for silence. The crowd fell mute, and suddenly Afsan realized that it was he who was really in control here. “No, Larsk was simply confused.” Like all of you…

“The One is gracious,” shouted a voice.

“The One is wise,” cried another.

It came to Afsan that he would never again have the ear of so many. This, perhaps, was his one great chance to spread the word, to show the people the truth. For the first and maybe only time in his life, he was in command. It was a moment to be seized.

“You’ve heard my explanation of how the world works,” he said, his throat aching from unaccustomed shouting. “We are a moon that revolves around a planet which we call the Face of God, and that planet, like all the others, travels in a circular path around our sun.”

“Behold!” screamed a voice. “The lies of Larsk revealed!” The speaker sounded close to madness. The crowd was nearing a fever pitch.

“But hear, now, the most important message of all!” Afsan dared raise both hands, briefly letting go of the shovelmouth’s neck. “Our world is doomed!”

“Just as it was foretold!” shouted a drawn-out voice that sounded like Cadool’s.

Afsan heard a buzz move through the crowd. “We have some time yet,” he shouted. “Although the world’s fate is sealed, we have many kilodays before its end will come.”

“Kilodays to pray!” said another voice.

“No!” Afsan again balanced on the shovelmouth’s back, holding both hands aloft. “No! Kilodays to prepare! We must get off this world.”

The sounds from the crowd were of puzzlement now.

“Get off the world?”

“What does he mean?”

Afsan wished he could see them, wished he could read their faces. Was he getting through to any of them?

“I mean,” he said, “that although the world is ending, our race does not have to. We can leave this place, fly to somewhere else.”

“Fly?” The word echoed throughout the square in intonations ranging from puzzled to sarcastic.

“Yes, fly! In vessels—ships—like those in which we now ply the waters of this world.”

“We don’t know how to do that,” called a voice.

“And I don’t know, either,” said Afsan. “But we must find a method—we must! It will mean changing the way in which we conduct our lives. We must give ourselves over to science, we must learn all that we can. Wingfingers fly; insects fly. If they can do it, we can do it. It’s only a question of discovering their methods and adapting them to our needs. Science holds our answer; knowledge—real knowledge, verifiable knowledge, not superstition, not religious nonsense—will be our salvation.”

The crowd, at last, was silent, save for the grunts of the beasts.

“We must learn to work together, to cooperate.” He smelled their pheromones, knew they were confused. “Nature—or God—has given us a great challenge. We have trouble working side by side; our territorial instincts drive us apart. But we must overcome these instincts, be creatures of reason and sanity instead of prisoners of our biology.”

Afsan turned his head in small increments from left to right, as if looking at each individual face. He could hear the hiss of conversation growing, a comment here, a question there, a remark from the back, an interjection up front.

“But, Afsan,” came a voice, louder than the others, “we need our territories…”

Afsan held the shovelmouth’s neck firmly so as not to lose his balance as he tipped forward in a concessional bow. “Of course we do,” he said. “But once we leave this world, there will be room for us all. Our Land is but a tiny part of the vast universe. We’re going to the stars!”

Suddenly another voice cut across all the others, a voice amplified and reverberating through a speaking horn.

“This is Det-Yenalb, Master of the Faith. Disperse at once. I have assembled those loyal to the Emperor and they are prepared to move upon the square unless you leave now. I say again: This is Det-Yenalb—”