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reformation of your self would never reoccur? You would be only a talking, walking extension of the
archetype?
Of course he stressed it. But it s not at night in sleep that the archetype takes over, it s during
the day. When they appear during the day that s when you re destroyed.
In other words when you sleep while awake.
Grudgingly, he said, True.
So, when you are asleep we must protect you. Why do you object to my enfolding of you during
this period? I am concerned for your life; you are so made that you would throw it away in a single
gamble. Your trip to our world a terrible gamble, one you should not have made, statistically
speaking.
But I made it, Provoni said.
The darkness had begun to withdraw as the Frolixan left him. He made out the metal wall of the
ship, the large hamper used as a hammock, the half-closed hatch to the control room. His ship, the
Gray Dinosaur: his world for so long. His cocoon, within which he slept a good part of the time.
They would wonder at the fanatic now, he thought, if they could see him stretched out in his
hammock, a week of beard on his face, his hair down to his shoulders, his body grimy, his clothing
rancid and grimier still. Here he is, the savior of man. Or rather of some part of mankind. The part
which had not been suppressed until he wondered what it was like, now. Had the Under Men gotten
any support? Or were most Old Men resigned to their meager status? And Cordon, he thought. What if
the great speaker and writer is dead? Then probably it all died with him.
But now they know my friends anyhow, know that I found the help we need and that I am
returning. Assuming they got my message. And assuming they could decode it.
I, the traitor, he thought. The caller upon the unhuman for support. Opening up Earth to an
invasion by creatures which otherwise would never have noticed it. Will I go down in history as the
most evil of men or savior? Or perhaps something less extreme, down there in the middle. The
subject of a quarter page entry in the Britannica.
How can you call yourself a traitor, Mr. Provoni? Morgo asked.
How indeed.
You have been called a traitor. You have been called a savior. I have examined every particle of
your conscious self, and there is no lusting after the vainglory of greatness; you have made a difficult
voyage, with virtually no hope of success, and you have done it for one motive only: to help your
friends. Isn t it said in one of your books of wisdom, If a man give up his life for his friend
You can t complete that quotation, Provoni, said, amused.
No, because you don t know it, and all we have ever had to go on is your mind on its contents,
down to the collective level, which worries us so at night
Pavor nocturnus, Provoni said. Fear at night; you have a phobia. He got shakily from his
hammock, stood dizzily swaying, then shuffled to the food-supply compartment. He pressed a button,
but nothing emerged. He pressed a second button. Still nothing emerged. He felt, then, panic; he
pressed buttons at random . . . and at last a cube of R-ration slid into the receptacle.
There is enough to get you back to Earth, Mr. Provoni, the Frolixman assured him.
But, he said savagely, grinding his teeth, just barely enough. I know the calculations; I may
have to go through the last few days with no food at all. And you re worried about my sleep; Christ, if
you re going to worry, worry about my gut.
But we know you ll be all right.
Okay, Provoni said. He opened the cube of food, ate it, drank a cup of redistilled water,
shuddered, wondered about brushing his teeth. I stink, he thought. All of me. They ll be appalled. I ll
look like someone trapped in a submarine for four weeks.
They ll understand why, Morgo said.
I want, Provoni said, to take a shower.
There is not enough water.
Can t you get me some? Somehow? On a number of times in the past, the Frolixan had
provided him with chemical constituents, building blocks he needed for more complicated entities.
Surely, if it could do this it could synthesize water . . . there, around the Gray Dinosaur, where it had
placed itself.
My own somatic system is short on water, too, Morgo said. I was thinking of asking you for
some.
He laughed.
What is funny? the Frolixan asked.
Here we are, out here between Proxima and Sol, on our way to save Earth from the tyranny of its
oligarchy of elite rulers, and we re busy trying to cadge a few quarts of water from each other. How
are we going to save Earth if we can t even synthesize water?
Let me tell you a legend about God, Morgo said. In the beginning he created an egg, a huge
egg, with a creature inside it. God tried to break the eggshell open to let the creature the original
living creature out. He couldn t. But the creature which He had made had a sharp beak, constructed
for just such a task, and it chipped its way out of the egg. And hence all living creatures have free
will, now.
Why?
Because we broke the egg, not He.
Why does that give us free will?
Because, dammit, we can do what He can t.
Oh. Provoni nodded, grinned, then, in amusement at the Frolixan s idiomatic English, learned,
of course, from himself. It knew Terran language, only to the extent that he knew them: a reasonably
adequate span of English but not what Cordon possessed plus a little Latin, German, Italian. It
could say goodbye in Italian, and seemed to enjoy doing so; it always signed off with a solemn ciao.
He himself preferred Biz you later, but evidently the Frolixans considered that substandard . . . and
by his own standards. It was an idiom from the Service which he couldn t get rid of. It was, like much
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