regeneration of tissue, any kind of living tissue, man or Martian, animal or crystal. I saw the recording of a man, a microdot on the droplet of frozen gold that was the complete record of the Planet since Man had landed, and that man was me. I saw the severed leg, the bloody flesh, the pounding heart, the snap and sparkle of my brain as I used the techniques of the crystal computer to heal myself. I felt Nova join me, melding, flowing until we were like one. We saw how the mural had tugged at her, as a child, and laughed at how obvious it had all been. We “looked” with one set of perceptions, joined together, yet each an individual.
We saw the record of all the instruments that kept aware of the very fabric of space, and felt the computer read our simple minds and direct our joined focus to the anomaly we sought, the tiny disruption of that fabric several years before and several millions of miles sunward. We saw where creatures had passed through that momentary and artificial rupture, and where they had gone. We sensed, rather than saw, where Michael and Madelon had gone, and felt a flash of pity for the scientists who assumed that one of nature’s rules regarding electromagnetic radiation held true for physical objects. We saw the way open to the stars.
We perceived where the last of the Martians had gone into the fabric of space, taking themselves outward through space that was not space, outward to a destiny we couldn’t even guess, not even with the help of their great machine. They had gone beyond the use of it, leaving it behind like a discarded toy; or perhaps a marker on a path. Would man be able to follow? Would mankind’s huge ego allow it to accept a handout of knowledge, even a knowledge so vast? But our minds were already focusing elsewhere.
We tracked the trail from the machine that had momentarily opened a path through the stars to a certain spot—through the non-space that the Martian artifact focused for us—to the center of the lines of gravitic energy that the crystal computer pinpointed as the ball of dirt where Mike and Madelon had gone.
I willed us in that direction, almost unconsciously. There was a little push, an electron moving from this orbit to that, a reading from the probability factors.
We linked . . .
Linked . . . to Seventh Sphere and the Guide.
Firstar . . . Snowflake.
Cornerstone and Mindsword.
The Teacher . . .
linked to the ways they had planned, to knowledge . . . to understanding . . .
it can’t be that easy . . .
knowing how. . .
linking to self . . .
doing . . .
going . . .
the focusing . . .
direction . . . thrust . . .
wind and motion . . .
blurred space . . .
the doing . . .
a sun . . .
two moons . . .
a red-violet sea . . .
fresh new grass beneath our feet . . .
the seawind on our naked bodies, cool and brisk . . .
