Borders of Infinity

they were all well immunized here. Escape, even through death, was not that easy. Miles rolled over and propped himself stiffly on his elbow, regarding his visitor through the thinning haze of his aches and pains.

The man scrabbled back slightly, smiled nervously. He nodded toward the cup. 'Water. Better drink. The cup's cracked, and it all leaks out if you wait too long.'

'Thanks,' croaked Miles. A week ago, or in a previous lifetime, depending on how you counted time, Miles had dawdled over a selection of wines, dissatisfied with this or that nuance of flavor. His lips cracked as he grinned in memory. He drank. It was perfectly ordinary water, lukewarm, faintly redolent of chlorine and sulfur. A refined body, but the bouquet is a bit presumptuous. . . .

The man squatted in studied politeness until Miles finished drinking, then leaned forward on his knuckles in restrained urgency. 'Are you the One?'

Miles blinked. 'Am I the what?'

'The One. The other one, I should say. The scripture says there has to be two.'

'Uh,' Miles hesitated cautiously, 'what exactly does the scripture say?'

The man's right hand wrapped over his knobby left wrist, around which was tied a rag screwed into a sort of rope. He closed his eyes; his lips moved a moment, and then he recited aloud, '. . . but the pilgrims went up that hill with ease, because they had these two men to lead them by the arms; also they had left their garments behind them, for though they went in with them, they came out without them.' His eyes popped back open to stare hopefully at Miles.

So, now we begin to see why this guy seems to be all by himself. . . . 'Are you, perchance, the other One?' Miles shot at a venture.

The man nodded, shyly.

'I see. Um . . .' How was it that he always attracted the nut cases? He licked the last drops of water from his lips. The fellow might have some screws loose, but he was certainly an improvement over the last lot, always presuming he didn't have another personality or two of the homicidal loonie variety tucked away in his head. No, in that case he'd be introducing himself as the Chosen Two, and not be looking for outside assistance. 'Um . . . what's your name?'

'Suegar.'

'Suegar. Right, all right. My name is Miles, by the way.'

'Huh.' Suegar grimaced in a sort of pleased irony. 'Your name means 'soldier,' did you know?'

'Uh, yeah, so I've been told.'

'But you're not a soldier . . . ?'

No subtle expensive trick of clothing line or uniform style here to hide from himself, if no one else, the peculiarities of his body. Miles flushed. 'They were taking anything, toward the end. They made me a recruiting clerk. I never did get to fire my gun. Listen, Suegar– how did you come to know you were the One, or at any rate one of the Ones? Is it something you've always known?'

'It came on me gradually,' confessed Suegar, shifting to sit cross-legged. 'I'm the only one in here with the words, y'see.' He caressed his rag rope again. 'I've hunted all up and down the camp, but they only mock me. It was a kind of process of elimination, y'see, when they all gave up but me.'

'Ah.' Miles too sat up, only gasping a little in pain. Those ribs were going to be murder for the next few days. He nodded toward the rope bracelet. 'Is that where you keep your scripture? Can I see it?' And how the hell had Suegar ever gotten a plastic flimsy, or loose piece of paper or whatever, in here?

Suegar clutched his arms protectively to his chest and shook his head. 'They've been trying to take them from me for months, y'see. I can't be too careful. Until you prove you're the One. The devil can quote scripture, y'know.'

Yes, that was rather what I had in mind. . . . Who knew what opportunities Suegar's 'scripture' might contain? Well, maybe later. For now, keep dancing. 'Are there any other signs?' asked Miles. 'You see, I don't know that I'm your One, but on the other hand I don't know I'm not, either. I just got here, after all.'

Suegar shook his head again. 'It's only five or six sentences, y'see. You have to interpolate a lot.'

I'll bet. Miles did not voice the comment aloud. 'However did you come by it? Or get it in here?'

'It was at Port Lisma, y'see, just before we were captured,' said Suegar. 'House-to-house fighting. One of my boot heels had come a bit loose, and it clicked when I walked. Funny, with all that barrage coming down around our ears, how a little thing like that can get under your skin. There was this bookcase with a glass front, real antique books made of paper—I smashed it open with my gun butt and tore out part of a page from one, and folded it up to stick in my boot heel, to make a sort of shim, y'see, and stop the clicking. Didn't look at the book. Didn't even know it was scripture till later. At least, I think it's scripture. It sounds like scripture, anyway. It must be scripture.'

Suegar twisted his beard hairs nervously around his finger. 'When we were waiting to be processed, I'd pulled it out of my boot, just idle-like, y'know. I had it in my hand—the processing guard saw it, but he just didn't take it away from me. Probably thought it was just a harmless piece of paper. Didn't know it was scripture. I still had it in my hand when we were dumped in here. D'you know, it's the only piece of writing in this whole camp?' he added rather proudly. 'It must be scripture.'

'Well . . . you take good care of it, then,' advised Miles kindly. 'If you've preserved it this long, it was obviously meant to be your job.'

'Yeah . . .' Suegar blinked. Tears? 'I'm the only one in here with a job, aren't I? So I must be one of the Ones.'

'Sounds good to me,' said Miles agreeably. 'Say, ah,' he glanced around the vast featureless dome, 'how do you find your way around in here, anyway?' The place was decidedly undersupplied with landmarks. It reminded Miles of nothing so much as a penguin rookery. Yet penguins seemed able to find their rocky nests. He was going to have to start thinking like a penguin—or get a penguin to direct him. He studied his guide bird, who had gone absent and was doodling in the dirt. Circles, naturally.

'Where's the mess hall?' Miles asked more loudly. 'Where did you get that water?'

'Water taps are on the outside of the latrines,' said Suegar, 'but they only work part of the time. No mess hall. We just get rat bars. Sometimes.'

'Sometimes?' said Miles angrily. He could count Suegar's ribs. 'Dammit, the Cetagandans are claiming loudly to be treating their POW's by Interstellar Judiciary Commission rules. So many square meters of space per person, 3,000 calories a day, at least fifty grams of protein, two liters of drinking water—you should be getting at least two IJC standard ration bars a day. Are they starving you?'

'After a while,' Suegar sighed, 'you don't really care if you get yours or not.' The animation that his interest in Miles as a new and hopeful object in his world had lent Suegar seemed to be falling away. His breathing had slowed, his posture slumped. He seemed about to lie down in the dirt. Miles wondered if Suegar's sleeping mat had suffered the same fate as his own. Quite some time ago, probably.

'Look, Suegar—I think I may have a relative in this camp somewhere. A cousin of my mother's. D'you think you could help me find him?'

'It might be good for you, to have a relative,' Suegar agreed. 'It's not good to be by yourself, here.'

'Yeah, I found that out. But how can you find anyone? It doesn't look too organized.'

'Oh, there's—there's groups and groups. Everyone pretty much stays in the same place after a while.'

'He was in the 14th Commandos. Where are they?'

'None of the old groups are left, much.'

'He was Colonel Tremont. Colonel Guy Tremont.'

'Oh, an officer.' Suegar's forehead wrinkled in worry. 'That makes it harder. You weren't an officer, were you? Better not let on, if you were—'

'I was a clerk,' repeated Miles.

'—because there's groups here who don't like officers. A clerk. You're probably OK, then.'