Chapter 12
Time.
More fragments, pieces, bits . . . Time.
Epiphany in Black & Light, Scenario in Green, Gold, Purple & Gray . . .
There is a man. He is climbing in the dusky daysend air, climbing the high Tower of Cheslerei in a place called Ardel beside a sea with a name he cannot quite pronounce as yet. The sea is as dark as the juice of grapes, bubbling a Chianti and chiaroscuro fermentation of the light of distant stars and the bent rays of Canis Vibesper, its own primary, now but slightly beneath the horizon, rousing another continent, pursued by the breezes that depart the inland fields to weave their courses among the interconnected balconies, towers, walls and walkways of the city, bearing the smells of the warm land toward its older, colder companion. . .
Climbing from hold to green stone on the seaward side of the structure, he has contrived to race with the last of the day as it flees upward, tilts, prepares to jump. In the antic light of evening the top of the Tower of Cheslerei is the last spot touched by the daygold before its departure from the capitol. He has given himself the time from the beginning of sunset to race the final light from bottom to top, to be on hand to take the night as it comes into the last place.
He is racing with shadows now, his own already diffuse about him, his hands darting like fish above the darkness. In the great high places above him the night continues with the minting of stars. Through atmosphere's crystal mask, he glimpses their englossment as he goes. He is panting now, and the spot of gold has diminished. The shadows begin to pass him as he mounts.
But it lingers, that tiny touch of gold on the green. Thinking, perhaps, of another place of green and gold, he moves even faster, pacing his shadow, gaining on it. The light fades for an instant, returns for another.
During that instant, he catches hold of the parapet and heaves himself upward, like a swimmer departing the water.
He draws himself up and stands, turning his head toward the sea, toward the light. Yes . . .
He catches the final fleck of gold that it tosses. For a moment only he stares after it.
He seats himself then on the stone and regards the night's other thousands, as he had never seen them before. For a long while, he watches. . . I know him well, of course.
Portrait of Boy & Dog Romping on the Beach, TickTock and Tempest Past, Fragment- "Fetch, boy! Fetch!"
"Damn it, Ragma! Learn to throw a frisbee properly if you want to play! I'm getting tired of going after it!"
He chuckled. I recovered it and sailed it back. He caught it and threw it, to lose it again in the bushes upshore.
"That's it," I said. "I quit. It's hopeless. You catch fine, but you throw lousy."
I turned and headed back toward the water. A few moments later I heard a scuffing noise and he was at my side.
"We have a game somewhat like that back home," he said. "I was never very good at it there either."
We watched the waves foam in, green to gray, crowding and frothing as they ran.
"Give me a cigarette," Ragma said.
I did, taking one myself also.
"If I tell you what I know you want to know, I will be breaking security," he said.
I said nothing. I had already guessed as much.
"But I am going to tell you anyhow," he went on. "Not details. Just the general picture. I am going to exercise my discretion. It is really pretty much an open secret, and now that your people are beginning to travel to other worlds and entertain visitors from them, you will hear about it sooner or later anyway. I would rather you heard it from a friend. It is a factor you should have in mind to make a better decision on the proposition you have been offered. I think we owe you that much."
"My Cheshire cat . . ." I began.
"Was a Whillowhim," he said, "a representative of one of the most powerful cultures in the galaxy. Competition among the various peoples who make up the total of civilization has always been keen in terms of trade and the exp…
