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didn't want to tell Sylvia because to tell her that much would necessitate telling her everything and he
would never do that. And there was no one else-certainly not Astor nor the Circle. They sought power in
order to subjugate the human race, not to help it.
But wouldn't time change that? He had to believe so. Time was the great transformer, the universal force
with the ability to change anything.
He suddenly noticed that Anna was looking at him. The editing machine was dark.
"I-" She was trying to fight that barrier again, but it was larger now. "There's something I want you to
see." She stood up.
"What?"
"A program."
"Not that again."
She was desperately sincere. "No, it's real this time. I mean it. Eathen-tell him."
"Yes," Eathen agreed. He stood beside Anna, as if he were capable of providing her with firm support.
"All right." Alec shrugged. "I'll come."
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The three of them-Anna in the lead-walked off into the garden.
Eleven
The three of them-Anna, Eathen, Alec-went to the place in the garden where the two wooden benches
sat facing each other. Alec occupied one bench and Anna the other. Eathen crouched down at her feet.
Slowly, deliberately, Anna said, "I want you to watch this, Alec. I think it may be very important."
"No tricks?"
"None," she said. "None at all."
"I still say-" Alec began but before he could finish the thought Anna and Eathen and the garden had
disap-peared. Instead, he was sitting among several thousand strangers in a huge, round, concrete
stadium. Above, the sky was an odd shade of gray but otherwise unremark-able. There was a cold wind.
The people were white-skinned, often blond, shabbily dressed. Their garments-ties and trousers and
thick sweaters-had been out of fashion for decades. The wind caused everyone's hair to lean in one
direction. The wind also seemed to sweep away any words. Around him, many lips were moving but he
could hear nothing beyond a few, uncertain moans. He stared at the people closest to him, trying to make
sense of their presence. Suddenly, out of the corner of an eye, he spied a familiar face:
Inspector Cargill.
He stood up, shouted, waved his hands. Cargill re-mained seated, his eyes turned toward the sunken
center of the stadium. Alec started to move but his feet refused to budge. He remembered that this was a
tape; his pres-ence in this crowd was merely an. illusion. But Cargill- that was no illusion. He was really
here.
Suddenly, Alec's attention was drawn toward the center of the stadium. A wooden podium rested down
there upon a small circle of artificial lawn. It was so far away he could not tell for certain if anyone was
actually standing down there. But something had drawn his gaze-aflash of motion. There-he saw it again.
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The others did too. Abruptly, the crowd fell silent. Their lips ceased to move, the occasional moans
stopped. All eyes were focused down-ward. Even the wind seemed to fade, as if it were waiting too.
Then, from below, an amplified voice spoke. Alec groaned aloud.
The voice was Ah Tran's.
It said: "Tonight, my lovers, young and old, I have chosen as my subject not godly things but rather
human events. I wish to speak to you of the history of our race, but when I use that word-history-I do
not desire you to think of an inexorably rising tide commencing with the establishment of so-called
civilization and sweeping onward past such now submerged landmarks as Babylon, Egypt, the Indus
Valley, Athens, Rome, the T'ang dynasty, Byzantine, the Golden Horde, the Mayans and Incas and
Aztecs, the Spanish and French and British empires, the American Domination, Soviet Russia, and so on
up to our present, precarious two-state world.
Nor do I even wish you to think in scientific rather than political terms: from De-mocritus through Euclid,
Archimedes, Ptolemy, Al-Khowarizmi, Galileo, Kepler, Francis Bacon, Newton, Gauss, Clausius,
Darwin, Planck, Albert Einstein, Alec Richmond, and so on. Or the arts: poetry, epic, novel, painting,
sculpture, music, film-making. I see no need to bore you with the sounding of further names. Or even- my
own specialty-prophecy, theology: Moses, Lao-Tze, Buddha, Confucius, Jesus, Mohammed, Mao, and
their latter day interpreters, disciples, corrupters. To see history in these terms-in any terms of mere
progression-is to ig-nore the central question: Which is greater? Superior? Was the civilization of
twentieth century America greater than that of the Kingdom of Axum? Was Milton a greater poet than
Homer? Which is it? Can you say? Greater? Lesser? Or-and I place my name with those who here cry
Aye.'-different? Let us continue, carrying this question of progression onward into absurdity. Einstein a
greater sci-entist than Archimedes? Mahler a greater composer than Bach? Rossellini a greater
film-maker than John Ford? Anna Richmond a greater artist than Francois Auguste Rodin? Myself a
greater prophet than the Buddha? I reply to these questions-and they are not intended wholly
rhe-torically-you may substitute any names you wish-I reply with a laugh."
And he laughed-long, loud, sharp.
Swiftly, he raised a hand and silenced the applause.
"Please-no-wait!" he cried. "Permit me to finish, then express your pleasure. The point I wish to make is
simply that the sheer, steep line of history is a myth. It does not exist. The truth is less complex and more
complete. It lies-" he raised a hand (in spite of the distance, Alec could clearly see) and drew a circle in
the air "-here. A closed line. A circle, repeating itself endlessly. So it is with the universe, with the
individual man, and so it must also be with history itself. It is a cycle and not some mad slope of a
mountain effortlessly rising infinitely higher until even the gods must laugh at the silliness and
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awkward-ness of the conception.
"A child is born nameless. Soon, he is provided by his makers with a firmer identity and is sent forth to
view and experience the world. Yet the child is no greater at twenty years than he was at twenty months.
When old age strikes, that is not a matter of declining, either. Remember: I speak to you not of the
parabola but rather of the circle.
As we grow old, this is the truth of our experience: the circle is simply closing-as it must. The
result-inevitably- is death, the repetition of birth.
"So it is with the individual man and so, too, is it with the universe man inhabits. In the beginning, matter
ex-isted, we are told, as a finite speck of awesome density. The result was an explosion of incredible
power. The uni-verse was thus shattered and born in a real sense, rushing outward to fill the void with
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