Chapter X

When morning finally came, Kesley had long since decided to leave the Colony.

As the first rays of dawn broke, he rose and made his way over the huddling sleepers in the room. Lisa stirred; the poetess had slumped over yawningly more than an hour before. On the floor, between the sleepers, lay remnants of artistic achievement--strewn manuscripts, curious statuettes, musical scores, musical instruments and such things. Kesley carefully avoided stepping on them. He wanted no contact here.

"Where are you going?" Lisa asked, looking up. Her eyes were red and raw looking; the copper mesh of her blouse was stained with the thick amber fluid of the drink she had laughingly poured between her breasts at some wild moment of the night before.

"Outside," Kesley said.

"Wait a minute. I'll go with you."

Shrugging, he stepped outside and she followed him. The dawn was coming up fresh and clear, with dew hanging brightly in the air. It would, Kesley thought, wash away the pollution in the air from last night's party. He tightened his lips nervously.

"Which way is the gate?" he asked.

"That way. Are you leaving? Why? Don't you like it here?" Impulsively, she tugged on his arm. "Answer me, Dale."

He looked wearily down at her. "I don't like it here. This place is poisoned. I want to get away, before I catch whatever all of you have."

"I don't understand you."

"Naturally not. Look, Lisa, you and your fellow esthetes have been bottled up in here since--since--when? The year two thousand?"

"John Harchman came here to found his colony in 2059," she said as if repeating a catechism.

"The year doesn't matter. You've been cooped up five hundred years. And what do you have to show for it? Great works of art? No--just drunken parties."

"We've produced wonderful things. Colin's done a glorious visomural, and the sensotapes--"

"You've produced nothing," Kesley said inexorably. "You create for yourselves--each other, at best. But not for the world outside."

"The world outside doesn't want us."

"Wrong. We don't understand you. And it's as much your fault as ours." Kesley turned away. "Leave me alone, Lisa. I should never have come here. I want to leave."

* * * * *

The jagged, violet blades of knifegrass glinted strangely in the morning sun. Kesley waited patiently while his hungry horse grazed. Mutant horse, mutant grass, the cycle held firm. Spindly, six-legged animal nibbling sharp-toothed, man-high grass. The purple blades blended with the blue-green of the Old Kind.

There had been no bombs over Kentucky, but the wind had carried the drifting seeds, brought the zygotes of the strange new grass down here to this unruined land. Now, a tough network of roots dug into the turf, and from them sprang the metal-sharp grass the atoms had made.

* * * * *

Kesley rode south, his mind full of melancholy thoughts.

The trail had completely trickled out--if there had been a trail. He was chasing phantoms, will-of-the-wisps.

Daveen, for instance. Who was he? A blind courtier who had vanished some four years previously, whose name van Alen had happened to drop and link with Kesley's. What relation did Daveen have to him? He didn't know. What relation did van Alen have, for that matter?

But he was searching for Daveen. The search had led to the Colony, but that was a dead end. Daveen had been there, and Daveen was no longer there, and that was all anyone could or would tell him.

Then, Narella. A hauntingly lovely girl--but so, for that matter, was the poetess Lisa. Narella was somewhere in Buenos Aires, at Miguel's court. Would he ever see her again? Again, he didn't know.

The horse plodded onward toward the mysterious city of Wiener. Kesley knew nothing about the city that lay ahead except that Lisa had recommended that he go there. It was another island on the continent, untouched by Winslow.

The picture of Winslow came to his mind, and immediately after, that of Miguel. They were different and similar, the two Immortals: one fat and gross, the other lean and hard, both complex and unfathomable, both deep-eyed with the loneliness of the timeless man. Miguel had welcomed him to his service, sent him off on a deadly errand, then reversed himself and ordered his death. And Winslow had refused him sanctuary and condemned him to death as well. Doubtless, there was now a price on his head throughout all of North and South America.

That left Antarctica, a complete unknown. Vaguely, he recalled that that had been his original destination when leaving Iowa, months before. But Antarctica was about as accessible as the moon, Kesley thought.

Then he thought of the mutants: Lomark Dawnspear, the blind one who had unaccountably rescued him from Winslow's dungeon, and Spahl and Huygens and Foursmith and the others of Mutie City, far to the north. What of them?

Lisa. The Colony, shallow and desperate and decadent, rotten from within and unable to see it.

Tiredly, Kesley rode on.

Above, the sky was warm and bright, and the rolling hills of southern Kentucky were broad, beautiful, dotted heavily with the purple grass and the strange golden-leaved trees the wars had brought. The vegetation was the only hint here that there once had been devastation in the world; today, in this place at this time, it seemed as if everything had been perfect forever. But he knew that it hadn't.

He rode on. Wiener lay ahead.

* * * * *

A week later, the city of Wiener rose before him from the wide flatlands of Northern Texas. He paused, reined in his horse, looked at the low sprawling wall of metal that rambled out over the desert.

He urged the tired mutie on. Hooves kicked up dry bursts of yellow sand.

As he drew near he could see that the wall was solid from side to side. This was no encircled city; it was one huge building, probably sunk deep into the earth.

Sunlight glinted flashingly off the metal wall. Kesley squinted, saw a dot of brightness detach itself from the city and come humming across the sands toward him. The City of Wiener was taking no chances, apparently; they were going to intercept him before he got too close.

He waited for the vehicle to approach. As it drew near, he saw that it was unmanned, merely a hollow shell made of some bright metal, teardrop-shaped and empty.

"Please get inside," a dead-sounding voice requested. "We will take you to the city."

Shrugging, Kesley rode forward; the teardrop split into halves. He guided his mount inside; the great door dropped closed again, and a moment later he was heading at a terrifying speed toward the metal city.