“Why, Yama?” he asked.
“It was considered quite carefully,” said Yama. “We did not want to make you a martyr, encouraging more than ever the growth of this thing you have been teaching. On the other hand, if you were not stopped, it would still continue to grow. It was decided, therefore, that you must meet your end at the hands of an agent of Heaven—thus showing which religion is the stronger. So, martyr or no, Buddhism will be a second-rate religion henceforth. That is why you must now die the real death.”
“When I asked ‘Why?’ I meant something different. You have answered the wrong question. I meant, why have you come to do this thing, Yama? Why have you, master of arms, master of sciences, come as lackey to a crew of drunken body-changers, who are not qualified to polish your blade or wash out your test tubes? Why do you, who might be the freest spirit of us all, demean yourself by serving your inferiors?”
“For that, your death shall not be a clean one.”
“Why? I did but ask a question, which must have long since passed through more minds than my own. I did not take offense when you called me a false Buddha. I know what I am. Who are you, deathgod?”
Yama placed his blade within his sash and withdrew a pipe, which he had purchased at the inn earlier in the day. He filled its bowl with tobacco, lit it, and smoked.
“It is obvious that we must talk a little longer, if only to clear both our minds of questions,” he stated, “so I may as well be comfortable.” He seated himself upon a low rock. “First, a man may in some ways be superior to his fellows and still serve them, if together they serve a common cause which is greater than any one man. I believe that I serve such a cause, or I would not be doing it. I take it that you feel the same way concerning what you do, or you would not put up with this life of miserable asceticism — though I note that you are not so gaunt as your followers. You were offered godhood some years ago in Mahartha, as I recall, and you mocked Brahma, raided the Palace of Karma, and filled all the pray-machines of the city with slugs . . .”
The Buddha chuckled. Yama joined him briefly and continued, “There are no Accelerationists remaining in the world, other than yourself. It is a dead issue, which should never have become an issue in the first place. I do have a certain respect for the manner in which you have acquitted yourself over the years. It has even occurred to me that if you could be made to realize the hopelessness of your present position, you might still be persuaded to join the hosts of Heaven. While I did come here to kill you, if you can be convinced of this now and give me your word upon it, promising to end your foolish fight, I will take it upon myself to vouch for you. I will take you back to the Celestial City with me, where you may now accept that which you once refused. They will harken to me, because they need me.”
“No,” said Sam, “for I am not convinced of the futility of my position, and I fully intend to continue the show.”
The chanting came down from the camp in the purple grove. One of the moons disappeared beyond the treetops.
“Why are your followers not beating the bushes, seeking to save you?”
“They would come if I called, but I will not call. I do not need to.”
“Why did they cause me to dream that foolish dream?”
The Buddha shrugged.
“Why did they not arise and slay me as I slept?”
“It is not their way.”
“You might have, though, eh? If you could get away with it? If none would know the Buddha did it?”
“Perhaps,” said the other. “As you know, the personal strengths and weaknesses of a leader are no true indication of the merits of his cause.”
Yama drew upon his pipe. The smoke wreathed his head and eddied away to join the fogs, which were now becoming more heavy upon the land.