“But not their sense of position relative to the rest of reality. That is easy to see,” insisted twelve forms nearby. While observing, they amused themselves by inventing a series of intricately evolved dynamic fractal patterns composed of long sequences of related thoughts.
“Why should they worry about it? They are reality based. If you will remember, that is enough.” There followed many thought-exhalations that elsewhere and under different conditions could have been interpreted as sighs.
“Tactility.” Five others temporarily existed as an integrated pentagram of contemplation. “Smell. What would not be traded for the scent of a decomposing flower, or the feel of wind on a face.”
“Enough of that,” swore eight nearby. “What use in teasing up old memories? It has been hundreds of years.”
“No, thousands,” insisted fifteen others. And they fell to arguing the specifics of memory.
The scent of a flower. The one who had first encountered the new arrivals drifted and watched. Smell. Touch. For any of those it would have traded immortality in an instant.
There is a difference between living forever and existing forever.
They could not impinge on reality except in the most peripheral, transitory fashion. They had rejected it, and it in turn had disavowed them. They could have no more effect on the three travelers than a falling leaf.
But sometimes, the watcher recalled, a falling leaf could set in motion great events—if circumstances were exactly right.
“What do you think of the name they have given to our world, and by implication, to us?” Six new arrivals found within the situation something new to discuss. It was eagerly taken up, as was anything new.
“Their thoughts are crude, but clear enough when verbally enunciated. They are images etched not in stone but in air.” Seven joined three to make ten.
“Two of them seem conflicted. We sense desire, admiration, fear, and hate all beaten together. Very typical of immature species.”
“Remember,” remarked the first, who remained a solitary point of cognition amid all the melding, “once we, too, were subject to such surges of emotion. Sometimes I miss them.”
“Everything is missed,” avowed thirty or more, who came together out of concurrence.
Watching those who were watching the bipeds was the entire population of that world, who in deference to the new arrivals’ whim would henceforth refer to themselves as Cocytans. It was a lark and, as something new, much appreciated. It would last as long as the bipeds themselves lasted, which, given their aimless meandering and obviously brief life span, would doubtless not be long.
“Help them,” whispered five of the presences.
“Help them,” concurred the rest of the populace.
There was a caucusing, whereupon it was given to the discoverer as one of the most determined among them to make the effort.
“It will be of no value,” declared the pessimists. “It never is.”
“We can but try,” insisted the more positive among those present. “We have nothing if not time.”
The narrow canyon up which they were advancing was lined with low scrub whose needles seemed to flex in their direction. Low considered pinching off a twig or two to test their consistency but thought better of it. From the looks of the twitching greenery, it might decide to pinch back. A narrow trickle of dirty water ran down the middle of the crevasse, encouraging but probably not potable. A large orange shape popped out of a hole high up on their left and inspected them briefly before vanishing back within. It hadn’t lingered long enough for him to get a good look at it, but he was sure it had more than two eyes.
Robbins put a hand on his arm. “Wait a minute. I thought I saw something.”
The pilot looked over at her. “First you hear something, then you feel something. Now you’re seeing somethings.”
“No, really.” She moved up alongside him, staring.
“Aerial?”
“Terrestrial. No, I’m not sure.”
“How many legs?”
“Look for yourself.” She pointed sharply.
A wisp of color flashed in the air before them. Not a flame, but the ghost of one. It flickered, never more than a suggestion of shape, never more than an indistinct outline. As manifestations went, it was disappointingly insubstantial.
As they stared speculatively, it circled, forcing them to turn slowly to follow its progress. The outline it formed varied in size but never in density. Low had seen far thicker fog.
After circling them twice, it appeared to shoot up the canyon and off to their left, each time attenuating to nothingness. Returning, it repeated the sequence. Was there a face buried in that color and mist? Robbins fancied she saw one, but it never lingered or held its shape long enough for her to be certain.
A daylight dream, it vanished completely after executing the second run up the canyon. Silent as a zephyr, it was a transitory phenomenon whose passage excited considerable discussion among the travelers.
No one said, “Did you see that?” because all of them had tracked its passage with their eyes.
“No heat,” noted Brink. “At least, none that I could feel.”
“No, it was a cold light. Didn’t give off anything, near as I could tell.” Low was equally baffled.
“So, what was it?” Robbins waited.
Brink was noncommittal but willing to speculate. “Swamp gas. Will-o’-the-wisp. I won’t torment you with the German name. A local atmospheric phenomenon, apparently harmless.”
“I thought it was suggesting that we should bear to the left,” she insisted.
Low was patient with her. “Come on, Maggie. We can’t start relying on lights in the sky for direction.”
“Why not?” She eyed him challengingly. “Given our knowledge of this place, which is to say none, it seems to me as good an indicator as anything else.”
Low looked at Brink, who shrugged as if to say, “She wants you to be in charge, remember?” The Commander considered the canyon ahead. Might as well go left as right anyway.
“All right. We’ll take a hint from your light, Maggie. And if it leads to a vertical cliff, you can be the first one to jump off.”
“Fine.” She strode past him and took the lead. He followed silently. There were times when he’d acted on the result of a coin flip, so why not on the vagaries of an inexplicable light? If nothing else, its appearance had been worthwhile because it had energized the journalist and at least momentarily taken her mind off their unfortunate circumstances.
“Probably airborne particles reacting with the sunlight,” Brink hypothesized, “or some piezoelectric reaction in the substance of the old walls. Although I suppose it could have been something else. A visual street sign, perhaps, lingering from ancient times.”
“Yeah,” muttered Low. ” ‘This Way to the Garbage Dump.'”
Brink was not displeased. “I would not mind finding that. Dumps are always full of useful things.”
“You know, Ludger, you’re an incorrigible. An incorrigible what, I don’t know, but an incorrigible.”
“I accept the designation with honor, Commander.”
“I think you’re both wrong.” Robbins stepped over a collapsed section of wall. “That was no natural phenomenon. It was trying to show us something.”
“Anything is possible, Maggie.” Brink worked at not sounding condescending. He didn’t always manage it. “This is an entirely new world. Who is to say what natural laws may or may not be obeyed here? Perhaps even flickering lights that give directions.”
“There was a face,” she insisted. “Just for an instant, but I saw it.”
“You are anthropomorphizing. Just as one sees faces in the clouds, or silhouettes in the stars.”
“It was a face. Not human, but distinct. My observation’s as valid as yours.”
Low tried to calm her. “It could have been a face. It wasn’t around for very long, so it’s hard to say. Remember, Maggie, the first rule of science is to disbelieve everything you see, not to accept it. Extraordinary events require extraordinary proof.”
“Maybe it’ll come back,” she decided. “Watch out. There’s a hole here.”
“I see it,” he replied testily, and was immediately sorry. She was only trying to be helpful.
“See!” Having exhausted itself with the effort, the first discoverer addressed the others. “They are not entirely bereft of perceptual ability. Excuse my dissipation. That was quite a strain.” Despite maximal exertion, a brief flicker was as much as any of them could impinge anymore on the real world.
“An admirable effort, but to limited effect.” A dozen decriers swirled nearby. “They are reluctant to accept the evidence of their senses.”
“That is natural enough,” insisted those who supported the first.
“Questioning is a sign of mental strength, not weakness,” avowed several who had remained neutral. “They proceed in the direction that was suggested.”
“Not a sign of acceptance,” the naysayers declared. “Their options were limited in any case.”
“Possibly if you tried again.” Avid supporters gathered around the first.
“I cannot. The attempt has left me spent. Perhaps later.” Any noncorporeal being would be weakened by the effort of trying to impact on the physical world. “They must proceed now on their own. But if another wishes to try…”