Roger Zelazny: To Die In Italbar

He advanced into the place, passing at irregular intervals large chunks of stone that glittered like polished quartz. Little rainbows danced about them and hordes of large blue butterflies seemed attracted by the shining. They swarmed, pirouetted, lighted a moment, returned to the air.

Far ahead, he saw a barely distinct shape, so vast as to be unbelievable, did he possess that critical faculty which gives rise to disbelief.

It was the form of a woman that he saw, half-hid amid bewilderments of blue, a woman whose hair, blue-black, swept the skies to the farthest horizons, whose eyes he could not see, but only feel, as though she watched from all directions, while her aura and partly glimpsed lineaments were, he knew, the _anima_ of the world. Then came to him a feeling of immense power and immense restraint.

As he drew nearer to that place in the garden, she vanished. The feeling of her presence persisted.

He became aware of a blue stone summerhouse, situated behind a high stand of shrubbery.

The light faded as he neared it until, when he entered, he felt once again the sorry realization that he would only glimpse a smile, a fluttering eyelid, an earlobe, a strand of hair, the sheen of blue moonbeams upon a restless forearm or shoulder. Never had he, nor would he--he felt--look her full in the face, describe with his eyes her entire form.

"Heidel von Hymack," came the words--not voiced, but in a whisper that carried far better than ordinary speech.

"Lady--"

"You did not heed my warning. You started out too soon."

"I know. I know ... When I am awake you seem unreal, just as now that other place seems but a dream."

He heard her soft laughter.

"You have the best of both worlds, you know," she said, "a thing that is seldom given to a man. While you are here with me in this pleasant bower, your body writhes with the extreme symptoms of terrible diseases. When you awaken there, you will be refreshed and whole once again."

"For a time," he said, seating himself on a stone bench that ran along a wall, resting his back against the wall's cool roughness.

"... And when that fresh time has passed, you may return here at will--" (Was that a trick of moonlight or a glimpse of her dark, dark eyes? he wondered) "--to be renewed."

"Yes," he said. "What happens here when I am there?"

He felt her fingertips brush against his cheek. There came a whelming of delight within him.

"Are you not happiest when you are here?" she asked.

"Yes, Myra-o-arym," and he turned his head and kissed her fingertips. "But other things than disease seem to remain behind when I come here--things that should be in my mind. I-- I cannot remember."

"This is as it must be, _Dra_ von Hymack. --Now, you must remain with me this time until you are fully refreshed, for the fluids of your body must be in perfect balance for you to do what must be done upon your return. You may depart this place at will, as well you know. But this time I recommend that you await my advice."

"This time I shall, Lady. --Tell me things."

"What things, my child?"

"I-- I am trying to think of them. I--"

"Do not try too hard. It will be of no avail--"

"Deiba! That is one of the things I sought! Tell me of Deiba."

"There is nothing to tell, _Dra_. It is a small world in an insignificant portion of the galaxy. There is nothing special about it."

"But there is. I am certain. A shrine ... ? Yes. On a high plateau. There is a ruined city all about it. The shrine is underground--is it not?"

"There are many such places in the universe."

"But this one is special. Isn't it?"

"Yes, in a strange, sad way it is, offspring of Terra. Only one man of your race ever came to proper terms with what you met there."

"What was it?"

"No," she said; and she touched him once more.

Then he heard music, soft and simple, and she began to sing to him. He did not hear--or if he heard, did not understand--any of the words she sang; but the blue mists swirled about him and there were perfumes, breezes, a kind of quiet ecstasy; and when he looked again there were no questions at all.

_______________

Dr. Larmon Pels orbited the world Lavona and transmitted a message to Medical Central, a message to Immigration and Naturalization Central and a message to Vital Statistics Central. Then he folded his hands and waited.

There was nothing else for him to do but fold his hands. He did not eat, drink, smoke, breathe, sleep, excrete, feel pain or indulge in any of the other common expressions of the flesh. In fact, he possessed no heartbeat. Various powerful chemical agents with which he had been invested were all that stood between Dr. Pels and putrefaction. There were several things which kept him going, however.

One was a tiny power system implanted within his body. This allowed him to move about without expending his own energy (though he never descended to the surface of a world, for his mini-powered movements would be overcome immediately, transforming him into a living statue captioned, perhaps, "Collapse"). This system, feeding as it did into his brain, also provided sufficient neural stimulation for his higher cerebral processes to function at all times.

Totally spacebound and continually thinking, therefore, was Dr. Pels, an exile from the worlds of life, a wanderer, a man who sought, a man who waited--by normal standards, a moving dead man.

The other thing which kept him going was not so tangible as his physical support system. His body frozen seconds before the onset of clinical death, it was not until days later that his Disposition of Assets Statement was read. Since a frozen man "does not enjoy the same status as a dead man" (_Herms v. Herms_, 18,777 C., Civil No. 187-3424), he may "exercise authority over his possessions by means of earlier demonstrations of intention, in precisely the same fashion as a sleeping man" (_Nyes et al. v. Nyes_, C., Civil No. 14-187-B). Accordingly, despite the protestations of several generations of well-meaning offspring, all of Dr. Pels' assets were converted to cash, which was used to purchase a bubble ship of interstellar capability with full medical laboratory, and to transform Dr. Pels himself from a state of cold inanimation to one of chilly mobility. All of this because, rather than await, dreamless, the hoped-for-but-maybe-never treatment of and recovery from his own condition, he had decided that he would not be especially troubled by dwelling indefinitely at a point perhaps ten seconds removed from death, so long as he could continue with his research. "After all," he had once said, "think of all the persons who at this moment are but ten seconds removed from death and are not even aware of the fact, so that they might attempt that which they most love."

That which Dr. Pels most loved was pathology, of the most exotic sort. He had been known to trace a new disease halfway across the galaxy. Over the decades he had published brilliant papers, had developed major remedies, had written textbooks, had lectured medical classes from his orbiting laboratory, had been considered for both the Dyarchic Nations and Allied Bodies and Combined Leagues Medical Awards (each, it was rumored, rejecting him for fear that the other might award him) and was granted full access to the general medical information banks of virtually any civilized planet he visited. Just about any other information he desired was relayed to him also.

Hovering above his laboratory tables--gaunt, hairless, six and a half feet in height and pale as bone--his long, thin fingers adjusting a flame or tilting a squeeze-bulb toward a vacuum-sphere, Dr. Pels seemed uniquely appropriate for the investigation of the many-splendored forms of death. Now, while it was true that he was not liable to the common exercises of living things, there was one pleasure which he possessed in addition to his work. He had music wherever he went. Light music, profound music; there was music about him constantly. His numbed body could feel it, whether he listened or ignored it. It may be that in some way it substituted for the heartbeat and the breathing and all the other little bodily sounds and feelings most men take for granted. Whatever the reason, it had been years since he had been without music.