had felt
They had copied her. Xeroxed her.
Taken the copy with them, just in case.
And now they had brought her back to meet the original Suzy. The copy had changed, and changed wonderfully. She was all Suzy, and all her mother, and all the others individually, but
The image led Suzy toward the rear wall of the flat, away from the window. They stood up on the bed, smiling at each other.
Ready? the image asked silently.
Suzy looked back over her shoulder at the buzzing snow, then felt the warm, solid grip. How many handshakes from someone in America?
Why, no handshake at all.
“Are we going to be slow, where we’re going?” Suzy asked.
No, the image mouthed, entirely Suzy now. Suzy could see it in her eyes. Cary had been right. They fixed people.
“Good. I’m awful tired of being slow.”
The image held up her hand, and together they ripped away the wallpaper. It was easy. The wall just opened up and the paper just curled away.
There was snow beyond the wall, but not like the snow beyond the window. This snow was for more beautiful.
There must have been a million flakes for everyone alive. Everyone dancing together.
“We’re not going to use the wardrobe?” Suzy asked.
It doesn’t go where we’re going, the image said. Together, they hunkered down, get ready, get set—
And sprang from the bed, through the opening in the wall.
The building trembled, as if somewhere a big door had slammed. In the night, the burning flakes of snow danced their Brownian dance. The black clouds above became transparent, and Suzy saw all directions at once. It was a delightful and scary way to see.
The storm abated just before dawn. The earth was very quiet as the hemisphere of darkness passed away.
The day began fitfully, casting along gray-orange glow on the waveless ocean and still land. Concentric rings of light fled from the dimming sun.
Suzy looked a long ways outward. (She was so tiny, and yet she could see everywhere, see very
The inner planets cast long shadows through an enveloping haze. The outer planets wavered in their orbits, and then blossomed in kaleidoscopic splendor, extending cold luminous arms to welcome their prodigal moons home.
The Earth, for the space of along, trembling sigh, held together in the maelstrom. When its time came, the cities, towns and villages—the homes and huts and tents—were as empty as shed cocoons.
The Noosphere shook loose its wings. Where the wings touched, the stars themselves danced, celebrated, became burning flakes of snow.
INTERPHASE
Michael Bernard, nineteen and yet not, sat in the Klamshak opposite Olivia. Over their booth hung the weary blowfish and plastic lobster and cork floats, not very original.
She had just told him about the break-up of her engagement.
He looked down at the table, sensing a very different potential between them now. The way had been cleared.
“Good dinner,” Olivia said, folding her hands behind her plate, strewn with oyster shells and shrimp tails. Thank you. I was very glad when you called.”
“I just felt silly,” Bernard said. “I acted like a real ninny last time.”
“No. You were very gallant.”
“Gallant Hm.” He laughed.
“I’m okay, really. It was a shock at first, but…”
“It must have been.”
“You know, when he told me, I just thought of coming back to school and getting on with things. Like breaking an engagement was nothing at all. It only hurt when he left. And then I thought of you.”
“Will you give me another chance?”
Olivia smiled. “Only if you can keep me feeling as good as I do now.”
Nothing is lost. Nothing is forgotten.
It was in the blood, the flesh,
And now it is forever.
NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincere appreciation to Andrew Edward Dizon, Ph.D., John Graves. Ph.D., Dr. Richard Dutton, Monte Wetzel, and Dr. Percy Russel for access to their laboratories and their valuable time and help. For special details, thanks also to Marian McLean at the World Trade Center and Herbert Quelle at the German Consulate in Los Angeles, as well as Ellen Datlow, Melissa Singer, and Andy Porter.
John F. Carr and David Brin suggested that the original short story should become a novel, some years ago. Stanley Schmidt, in his capacity as editor at
While dropping by a San Diego convention on Hybridoma and Scale-Up research, I spotted Vergil I. Ulam’s red Volvo sports car in the hotel parking lot. At this moment he is a young graduate student looking for part-time employment.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GREG BEAR is the author of over twenty-seven books of science fiction and fantasy. He has been awarded two Hugo and five Nebula Awards for his fiction, one of two authors to win a Nebula in every category.
He has been called the “best working writer of science fiction” by
He is married to Astrid Anderson Bear. They are the parents of two children, Erik and Alexandra.
