From the Ocean from teh Stars (63 page)

"Now listen, Alvin," began Callistron. "This is the
third
time you've interrupted a saga. You broke the sequence yesterday by wanting to climb out of the Valley of Rainbows. And the day before you upset everything by trying to get back to the Origin in that time track we were exploring. If you won't keep the rules, you'll have to go by yourself."

He vanished in high dudgeon, taking Floranus with him. Narillian never appeared at all; he was probably too fed up with the whole affair. Only the image of Alystra was left, looking sadly down at Alvin.

Alvin tilted the gravity field, rose to his feet, and walked toward the table he had materialized. A bowl of exotic fruit appeared upon it—not the food he had intended, for in his confusion his thoughts had wandered. Not wishing to reveal his error, he picked up the least dangerous-looking of the fruits and started to suck it cautiously.

"Well," said Alystra at last, "what are you going to do?"

"I can't help it," he said a little sulkily. "I think the rules are stupid. Besides, how can I remember them when I'm living a saga? I just behave in the way that seems natural. Didn't
you
want to look at the mountain?"

Alystra's eyes widened with horror.

"That would have meant going outside!" she gasped.

Alvin knew that it was useless to argue further. Here was the barrier that sundered him from all the people of his world, and which might doom him to a life of frustration. He was always wanting to go outside, both in reality and in dream. Yet to everyone in Diaspar, "outside" was a nightmare that they could not face. They would never talk about it if it could be avoided; it was something unclean and evil. Not even Jeserac, his tutor, would tell him why.

Alystra was still watching him with puzzled but tender eyes. "You're unhappy, Alvin," she said. "No one should be unhappy in Diaspar. Let me come over and talk to you."

Ungallantly, Alvin shook his head. He knew where
that
would lead, and at the moment he wanted to be alone. Doubly disappointed, Alystra faded from view.

In a city of ten million human beings, thought Alvin, there was no one to whom he could really talk. Eriston and Etania were fond of him in their way, but now that their term of guardianship was ending, they were happy enough to leave him to shape his own amusements and his own life. In the last few years, as his divergence from the standard pattern became more and more obvious, he had often felt his parents' resentment. Not with him—that, perhaps, was something he could have faced and fought—but with the sheer bad luck that had chosen them from all the

city's millions, to meet him when he walked out of the Hall of Creation
twenty years ago.

Twenty years.
He could remember the first moment, and the first
words he had ever heard: "Welcome, Alvin. I am Eriston, your appointed father. This is Etania, your mother." The words had meant
nothing then, but his mind had recorded them with flawless accuracy.
He remembered how he had looked down at his body; it was an inch or
two taller now, but had scarcely altered since the moment of his birth.
He had come almost fully grown into the world, and would have changed little save in height when it was time to leave it a thousand years hence.

Before that first memory, there was nothing. One day, perhaps, that
nothingness would come again, but that was a thought too remote to
touch his emotions in any way.

He turned his mind once more toward the mystery of his birth. It
did not seem strange to Alvin that he might be created, in a single moment
of time, by the powers and forces that materialized all the other objects
of his everyday life. No;
that
was not the mystery. The enigma he had never been able to solve, and which no one would ever explain to him,
was his uniqueness.

Unique.
It was a strange, sad word—and a strange, sad thing to be.
When it was applied to him—as he had often heard it done when no one thought he was listening—it seemed to possess ominous undertones that
threatened more than his own happiness.

His parents, his tutor, everyone he knew, had tried to protect him
from the truth, as if anxious to preserve the innocence of his long child
hood. The pretense must soon be ended; in a few days he would be a
full citizen of Diaspar, and nothing could be withheld from him that he
wished to know.

Why, for example, did he not fit into the sagas? Of all the thousands
of forms of recreation in the city, these were the most popular. When
you entered a saga, you were not merely a passive observer, as in the
crude entertainments of primitive times which Alvin had sometimes
sampled. You were an active participant and possessed—or seemed to
possess—free will. The events and scenes which were the raw material
of your adventures might have been prepared beforehand by forgotten
artists, but there was enough flexibility to allow for wide variation. You could go into these phantom worlds with your friends, seeking the excite
ment that did not exist in Diaspar—and as long as the dream lasted there
was no way in which it could be distinguished from reality. Indeed, who
could be certain that Diaspar itself was not the dream?

No one could ever exhaust all the sagas that had been conceived and recorded since the city began. They played upon all the emotions and were of infinitely varying subtlety. Some—those popular among the very young—were uncomplicated dramas of adventure and discovery. Others were purely explorations of psychological states, while others again were exercises in logic or mathematics which could provide the keenest of delights to more sophisticated minds.

Yet though the sagas seemed to satisfy his companions, they left Alvin with a feeling of incompleteness. For all their color and excitement, their varying locales and themes, there was something missing.

The sagas, he decided, never really got anywhere. They were always painted on such a narrow canvas. There were no great vistas, none of the rolling landscapes for which his soul craved. Above all, there was never a hint of the immensity in which the exploits of ancient man had really taken place—the luminous void between the stars and planets. The artists who had planned the sagas had been infected by the same strange phobia that ruled all the citizens of Diaspar. Even their vicarious adventures must take place cozily indoors, in subterranean caverns, or in neat little valleys surrounded by mountains that shut out all the rest of the world.

There was only one explanation. Far back in time, perhaps before Diaspar was founded, something had happened that had not only destroyed Man's curiosity and ambition, but had sent him homeward from the stars to cower for shelter in the tiny closed world of Earth's last city. He had renounced the Universe and returned to the artificial womb of Diaspar. The flaming, invincible urge that had once driven him over the Galaxy, and to the islands of mist beyond, had altogether died. No ships had entered the Solar System for countless aeons; out there among the stars the descendants of Man might still be building empires and wrecking suns—Earth neither knew nor cared.

Earth did not. But Alvin did.

☆
CHAPTER TWO

Th
e room was dark save for one glowing wall, upon which the tides of color ebbed and flowed as Alvin wrestled with his dreams. Part of the pattern satisfied him; he had fallen in love with the soaring lines of the mountains as they leaped out of the sea. There was

a power and pride about those ascending curves; he had studied them for
a long time, and then fed them into the memory unit of the visualizer,
where they would be preserved while he experimented with the rest of
the picture. Yet something was eluding him, though what it was he did
not know. Again and again he had tried to fill in the blank spaces, while
the instrument read the shifting patterns in his mind and materialized
them upon the wall. It was no good. The lines were blurred and un
certain, the colors muddy and dull. If the artist did not know his goal,
even the most miraculous of tools could not find it for him.

Alvin canceled his unsatisfactory scribblings and stared morosely at
the three-quarters-empty rectangle he had been trying to fill with beauty.
On a sudden impulse, he doubled the size of the existing design and shifted
it to the center of the frame. No—that was a lazy way out, and the
balance was all wrong. Worse still, the change of scale had revealed the defects in his construction, the lack of certainty in those at-first-sight
confident lines. He would have to start all over again.

"Total erasure," he ordered the machine. The blue of the sea faded; the mountains dissolved like mist, until only the blank wall remained. They were as if they had never been—as if they were lost in the limbo
that had taken all Earth's seas and mountains ages before Alvin was born.

The light came flooding back into the room and the luminous rectangle
upon which Alvin had projected his dreams merged into its surroundings,
to become one with the other walls. But were they walls? To anyone
who had never seen such a place before, this was a very peculiar
room indeed. It was utterly featureless and completely devoid of furniture,
so that it seemed as if Alvin stood at the center of a sphere. No visible
dividing lines separated walls from floor or ceiling. There was nothing on which the eye could focus; the space enclosing Alvin might have been ten
feet or ten miles across, for all that the sense of vision could have told.
It would have been hard to resist the temptation to walk forward, hands
outstretched, to discover the physical limits of this extraordinary place.

Yet such rooms had been "home" to most of the human race for
the greater part of its history. Alvin had only to frame the appropriate
thought, and the walls would become windows opening upon any part of
the city he chose. Another wish, and machines which he had never seen
would fill the chamber with the projected images of any articles of furni
ture he might need. Whether they were "real" or not was a problem
that had bothered few men for the last billion years. Certainly they were
no less real than that other impostor, solid matter, and when they were
no longer required they could be returned to the phantom world of the
city's Memory Banks. Like everything else in Diaspar, they would never

wear out—and they would never change, unless their stored patterns
were canceled by a deliberate act of will.

Alvin had partly reconstructed his room when a persistent, bell-like
chime sounded in his ear. He mentally framed the admission signal, and
the wall upon which he had just been painting dissolved once more. As
he had expected, there stood his parents, with Jeserac a Uttle behind
them. The presence of his tutor meant that this was no ordinary family
reunion—but he knew that already.

The illusion was perfect, and it was not lost when Eriston spoke. In
reality, as Alvin was well aware, Eriston, Etania, and Jeserac were all miles apart, for the builders of the city had conquered space as completely as they had subjugated time. Alvin was not even certain where
his parents lived among the multitudinous spires and intricate labyrinths
of Diaspar, for they had both moved since he had last been physically
in their presence.

"Alvin," began Eriston, "it is just twenty years since your mother and
I first met you. You know what that means. Our guardianship is now
ended, and you are free to do as you please."

There was a trace—but merely a trace—of sadness in Eriston's voice.
There was considerably more relief, as if Eriston was glad that a state
of affairs that had existed for some time in fact now had legal recognition. Alvin had anticipated his freedom by a good many years.

"I understand," he answered. "I thank you for watching over me,
and I will remember you in all my lives." That was the formal response;
he had heard it so often that all meaning had been leached away
from it—it was merely a pattern of sounds with no particular significance. Yet "all my lives" was a strange expression, when one stopped to consider
it. He knew vaguely what it meant; now the time had come for him to
know exactly. There were many things in Diaspar which he did not under
stand, and which he would have to learn in the centuries that lay ahead
of him.

For a moment it seemed as if Etania wished to speak. She raised one hand, disturbing the iridescent gossamer of her gown, then let it fall back
to her side. Then she turned helplessly to Jeserac, and for the first time
Alvin realized that his parents were worried. His memory swiftly scanned
the events of the past few weeks. No, there was nothing in his recent
life that could have caused this faint uncertainty, this air of mild alarm
that seemed to surround both Eriston and Etania.

Jeserac, however, appeared to be in command of the situation. He
gave an inquiring look at Eriston and Etania, satisfied himself that they