Alfred van Vogt: The World of Null-A

That was all, but Gosseyn thrilled with excitement. He must have stimulated a tiny mass of cells. Once again, the minutes flowed by, and then:

“–Memory certainly turned out to be a remarkable . . . But between your group and mine, the continuity was broken. My accident was too much for the process. Too bad-but, still, you've already had the experience of apparently surviving as an individual, so you know how complete–”

This time, there was only the tiniest pause, then the next thought followed:

“. . . I used to wonder if there wasn't someone else. I thought of myself as a queen in the game-in such a setup you would be a pawn on the seventh row, just about ready to queen. But then I'd come to a blank, for a queen no matter how powerful is only a piece. Who, then, is the player? Where did all this start? . . . Once more . . . (incoherently) . . . the circle is completing, and we are no further ahead–”

Frantically, Gosseyn fought to hold the connection, but there was a blur, and then nothing. As he strained for more thoughts, he grew conscious of the fantastic thing he was doing. He pictured himself in this shattered, bejeweled building trying to read the mind of a dead man. Surely, in all the universe, this was unique. The personal thought faded, because, once more-contact.

“. . . Gosseyn, more than five hundred years ago . . . I nourished Null-A, which someone else started. I was looking for a place to settle, and for something to be that was more than mere continuity; and it seemed to me that the Non-Aristotelian Man was it . . . Our secret of immortality could not, of course, be given to the unintegrated, who would, like Thorson, think of it as a means to supreme power–”

The blur came back, and during the minutes that followed it was evident the cells were losing their unity of personality. Wild cells remained, bewildered groups, masses of neurons, holding their separate pictures unsteadily against the encroaching death. Finally, he caught another coherent thought:

“. . . I discovered the galactic base, and visited the universe . . . I came back and superintended the construction of the Games Machine-only a computer could in the beginning control the undisciplined hordes that lived on earth. And it was I who chose Venus as the planet where men of null-A could be free. And then, despite my loss of memory–my injury–I was able to start growing bodies again other than those of my own genera–genera–”

That was all he got. Minutes and minutes passed, and there was only an occasional blur. Gosseyn climbed at last to his feet. He felt the glowing excitement of a man who had triumphed over death itself. But it was too bad that the vital information of body duplication had not surfaced. Except for that and one other thing, he was satisfied. The other thing: He had, he realized, allowed one meaning to slide by him. But, now, it came to the fore, with its implications: “. . . Between your group and mine the continuity was broken!”

Odd, how all these minutes, that had not really penetrated. The idea of a connection was so remote in his mind; his earlier rejection of “X” so complete. And yet-the continuity could only be, could only refer to . . . memory. Besides, who else could he be?

Feverishly, he went in search of shave salve. He found a jar in a washroom down the hall. With trembling fingers, he rubbed it over the beard of the still, dead face.

The beard came off easily into a towel. Gosseyn knelt there looking down at a face that was older than he had thought, seventy-five, possibly eighty years old. It was an unmistakable face, and of itself answered many questions. Here beyond all argument was the visible end-reality of his search.

The face was his own.