I flinched, prepared to back off, but I caught myself and laughed instead, and said, “Friends, yes friends, I think.”
And Quell repeated, “Friends.”
Later we left our cubicle and went exploring, down into the lower levels of the immense academy.
We walked among the philosophical robots who sat silhouetted among firefly lights to speak in tongues from ancient times.
“Plato,” I said. “Aristotle,” I went on. “Behold us. What do you see?”
And the Plato robot said, “Two terrible and fine, ugly and beautiful children of nature.”
And Quell asked, “Ah, but what is nature?”
Socrates answered, sparks showering, “God surprising himself with odd miracles of flesh.”
And Aristotle, a strange little plastic robot, continued: “And theirs is nothing odder or miraculous, then.”
Quell reached out and touched my forehead with one of his long, finely tufted finger-legs and said, “Ishmael.”
I responded warmly, and touched the downy chest of my new friend. “Quell, from the far islands of the great Andromeda Nebula. Quell.”
“We shall study together,” said Quell.
“Listen together, learn together, explore together,” I added.
And we did indeed listen to the voice of our robot philosopher teachers, who continued to speak in tongues various and strange during the next days, weeks, and months of our training. No one told us where we’d be going, what would be asked of us, or how long we would remain Earth-bound in these vast caverns of learning.
But finally the day came that the robot instructors’ talk, their babble, their murmurs, faded. We arrived at the lecture hall one morning and everything was still. On the video screen were our names, and the words, “Orders received. Report for duty.”
Quell observed, “Our studies appear to be at an end.”
“If so,” I said, “our life begins. Let us find our rocket.”
We returned to our room, where our orders were awaiting us. We collected our gear and, donning our jet-packs, rose into the air and flew. The clouds gave way, the birds parted, and at last we landed at the great launching area of Cape Kennedy. We were surrounded by skyscraper gantries, gleaming rockets, the persistent buzz of intense activity.
I stared around me, stunned by the immense size of it all.
“Look, Quell, there, and there! Rockets! At least two dozen. Listen to the names: Apollo 149, Mercury 77, Jupiter 215. And there…”
Quell finished for me. “The Cetus 7.”
I stared at the gleaming cylinder, towering above all the other craft. “The largest interstellar ship ever built,” I said, in awe.
Quell mused, “I wonder if, in their dreams, your Bach and Beethoven ever built such as these?”
A voice broke our reverie. “They did, oh yes they did.”
We turned to find an old man in a faded astronaut’s suit emerging from the shadow of a gangway. He spoke, saying simply, “Hello, friends.”
Quell must have scanned the stranger’s mind, for he replied, “We are no friends of yours.”
The old man chuckled mirthlessly and continued. “You’re quick to judge me, telepath. Be quicker still. Is the Cetus 7 to be your ship?”
“It is,” I replied.
The old man groaned. “Ah, you tread the rim of the Abyss. Pull back, if you know what’s good for you.”
Quell uttered a curse from his far world and pulled at my elbow. “Let’s go, Ishmael. No need to listen to this one’s false warnings.”
The old man pursued us. “You, young man, do you know that spaceship’s captain?”
“Not eye to eye,” I said, turning back, curious.
“Eye to eye! My God, you’ve touched the nerve. For when you meet him, do not look into his eyes. Be warned—he has none.”
“None?” I asked. “Blind?”
“No, stricken’s more the word. Burnt blind in space some years ago. Ah, but you knew it,” the old man said, turning to Quell.
“No, I did not,” said Quell, tugging at my arm again. “And we’ll hear no more from you.”
But the old man would not be silenced. “You’ve already heard it, my friend, for you have just read the whole inside of my mind. You’ve seen. Now tell your young friend what you’ve learned. Tell him what’s in store.”
I shook off Quell’s hand and stood waiting.
The old astronaut came closer and spoke very clearly. “What burnt the captain blind? Where? When? How? You may well ask. Was he a priest of space, chasing God, and God spun and struck darkness at him in one blow? Is your captain all in one smooth piece, or do the ragged edges show where he was sewn back up? Does midnight still peek out through those raw holes the doctors could not mend? Was he born an albino, or did terror bleach him like a terrible snow?”
I turned to look at Quell to see how he was taking all this, and the immense shadow that was Quell trembled in the sunlight but would not give answer.
The old astronaut, triumphant, moved yet closer.
“Now hear this. Aboard that ship, far out in space, there’ll come a time when you see land—a world on the horizon—where there is no land, find time where there is no time; when ancient kings will reflesh their bones and reseat their crowns. Then, oh then, ship, ship’s captain, ship’s men, all, all will be destroyed! All save one.”
My hands were fists. I stepped toward the old man in anger, but he backed off to finish.
“Believe me. The Cetus 7 is no fair ship. It is its captain’s. And the captain is forever lost.” And finally he turned and started to walk away.
“Wait,” I cried. “Hold on. What is your name?”
The old man paused, as if searching for an answer.
“Elijah. Name’s Elijah. Good morning to you, friends, morning.”
He spread his arms and, a moment later, where he had been was darkness.
Quell and I stood, abandoned, as a swift shadow passed over us, and the voice came one more time from above, fading, “Morning, morning.”
Before either of us could say a word, there came an immense sound of thunder as a rocket, perhaps five miles distant, took off shuddering, filling the sky with color; the crimson and white flashes of ascension. As the sound receded, we became aware of sudden activity around us—the stirrings of technicians and robots and astronauts, the sounds of radios and electronic pulses, the shadows of rockets connecting to gantries, ready to lift into the universe.
Quell at last said, “It’s time to go. Our ship is waiting. Ishmael, attend, we must aboard.”
And so we continued on to the Cetus 7.
Chapter 2
Oh, the logistics of the rocket. Computerize the billion and one decisions. Ten thousand nursing bottles filled with super-homogenized gunk for space children. Fresh air produced by glass-enclosed botanical gardens. Sweat recycled into sweet water by machines.
Ring all the bells and klaxons. Flash the lights and prepare the thunders. Men and women run.
Quell and I stood by the gantry, staring up at the giant ship. It had been a week since our strange encounter with Elijah, seven days filled with intense activity as the Cetus 7 crew, of which we were now members, prepared the ship for voyage.
“Quell,” I said, “at no time in the last week, in all the rush and work, upon or around the ship, have we seen—blind or otherwise—the prophesied captain of our ship.”
Quell shut his yes and cocked his strange head.
“Him,” he whispered.
“What?” I urged. “What?”
Quell murmured, “He is near.” And he turned and pointed up at the gantry. Its elevator was slowly rising and within the cage we saw a lone, dark figure.
“There is our captain,” said Quell.
The spaceman’s chapel. I had come to say a prayer before liftoff the next morning. Quell accompanied me, although I knew not to what god he prayed, if any. The muted light soothed our eyes after the blinding glare of the launching pad. Within the quiet and sacred space we stared up at the curved panoramic ceiling and there we saw, floating, the translucent shapes of men and women long lost in space. Soft murmurs emanated from them, a multitudinous whispering.
“And those? Why?” said Quell.
I watched the floating shapes and said, “Memorials, images, and voices of those who have died and are buried forever in space. Here, in the high air of the cathedral, at dawn and at dusk, their souls are projected, their voices broadcast, in remembrance.”
Quell and I stood and listened and watched.
One lost voice recited, “David Smith, lost near Mars, July 2050.”
Another, higher, softer, said, “Elizabeth Ball, adrift beyond Jupiter, 2087.”
And a third, sonorous, again and again, “Robert Hinkston, killed by meteor swarm, 2063, buried in space.”
Another whisper: “Buried.”
A further sound: “Lost.”
And all the whispers at once, repeating: “In space, in space, in space.”
I took Quell’s arm and turned him toward the front of the chapel. “There,” I said, pointing. “In the pulpit, at any moment, we will see a man who died nearly a hundred years ago, but so remarkable a man was he that they computerized his soul, tracked his voice, made circuitries of his merest breath.”
At that, the lights rose to illuminate a figure that was rising behind the pulpit.
“Father Ellery Colworth,” I murmured.
“A robot?” said Quell, quietly.
“Yes,” I said, “but more. Before us is the gentle essence of the man.”
The lights dimmed somewhat as the incredible three-dimensional duplicate of Father Ellery Colworth began to speak.
“Is God dead?” he said. “An old question now. But once, hearing it, I laughed and replied: Not dead, but simply sleeping until you chattering bores shut up!”
There was a soft sound of laughter all around Quell and me, which faded as Father Colworth continued.
“A better answer is yet another question: Are you dead? Does the blood move in your hand, does that hand move to touch metal, does that metal move to
