“All those men—killed.”
Dorn nodded. “And women. The artifact made me see that it was my duty to find each of those forgotten bodies and give each one a decent final rite. The artifact seemed to be telling me that this was the path of my atonement.”
“Your salvation,” she murmured.
“I see now, however, that I underestimated the situation.”
“How?”
“Humphries. While I am out there searching for the bodies of the slain, he will have me killed.”
“No! That’s wrong!”
Dorn’s deep voice was empty of regret. “It will be simple for him to send a team after me. In the depths of dark space, they will murder me. What I failed to do for myself, Humphries will do for me. He will be my final atonement.”
“Never!” Elverda blazed with anger. “I will not permit it to happen.”
“Your own life is in danger from him,” Dorn said.
“What of it? I am an old woman, ready for death.”
“Are you?”
“I was … until I saw the artifact.”
“Now life is more precious to you, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want you to die,” Elverda said. “You have atoned for your sins. You have borne enough pain.”
He looked away, then started up the tunnel again.
“You are forgetting one important factor,” Elverda called after him.
Dorn stopped, his back to her. She realized now that the clothes he wore had been his military uniform. He had torn all the insignias and pockets from it.
“The artifact. Who created it? And why?”
Turning back toward her, Dorn answered, “Alien visitors to our solar system created it, unknown ages ago. As to why—you tell me: Why does someone create a work of art?”
“Why would aliens create a work of art that affects human minds?”
Dorn’s human eye blinked. He rocked a step backward.
“How could they create an artifact that is a mirror to our souls?” Elverda asked, stepping toward him. “They must have known something about us. They must have been here when there were human beings existing on Earth.”
Dorn regarded her silently.
“They may have been here much more recently than you think,” Elverda went on, coming closer to him. “They may have placed this artifact here to communicate with us.”
“Communicate?”
“Perhaps it is a very subtle, very powerful communications device.”
“Not an artwork at all.”
“Oh yes, of course it’s an artwork. All works of art are communications devices, for those who possess the soul to understand.”
Dorn seemed to ponder this for long moments. Elverda watched his solemn face, searching for some human expression.
Finally he said, “That does not change my mission, even if it is true.”
“Yes it does,” Elverda said, eager to save him. “Your mission is to preserve and protect this artifact against Humphries and anyone else who would try to destroy it—or pervert it to his own use.”
“The dead call to me,” Dorn said solemnly. “I hear them in my dreams now.”
“But why be alone in your mission? Let others help you. There must be other mercenaries who feel as you do.”
“Perhaps,” he said softly.
“Your true mission is much greater than you think,” Elverda said, trembling with new understanding. “You have the power to atone for the wars that have destroyed your comrades, that have almost destroyed your soul.”
“Atone for the corporate wars?”
“You will be the priest of this shrine, this sepulcher. I will return to Earth and tell everyone about these wars.”
“Humphries and others will have you killed.”
“I am a famous artist, they dare not touch me.” Then she laughed. “And I am too old to care if they do.”
“The scientists—do you think they may actually learn how to communicate with the aliens?”
“Someday,” Elverda said. “When our souls are pure enough to stand the shock of their presence.”
The human side of Dorn’s face smiled at her. He extended his arm and she took it in her own, realizing that she had found her own salvation. Like two kindred souls, like comrades who had shared the sight of death, like mother and son they walked up the tunnel toward the waiting race of humanity.