Project Pope by Clifford D. Simak

way.”
    He led the way out of the stack and into a small room crowded with equipment.
    â€œSit down in that chair over there,” said Ecuyer. “Take it easy. Relax.”
    A helmet arrangement was suspended over the chair. Tennyson regarded it with some suspicion.
    â€œGo on, sit down,” said Ecuyer. “I’ll fit the helmet on you and drop the cube into the slot and—”
    â€œAll right,” said Tennyson. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you.”
    â€œYou can trust me,” Ecuyer said. “It won’t hurt at all.”
    Tennyson lowered himself cautiously into the chair, squirmed around to get comfortable. Ecuyer carefully lowered the helmet on his head, fussing to get it adjusted.
    â€œYou all right?” he asked.
    â€œAll right. I can’t see a thing.”
    â€œYou don’t need to see. Breathing all right? No trouble breathing?”
    â€œNone at all.”
    â€œAll right, then. Here we go.”
    For a moment there was utter darkness, then there was light, a greenish sort of light, and a wetness. Tennyson gasped and then the gasp cut off, for everything was all right, better than all right.
    The water was warm and the mud was soft. His gut was full. For the moment there was no danger. Contentment filled him and he allowed himself to sink deeper into the yielding mud. When the mud no longer yielded, he agitated his legs, trying to sink deeper, but this gained him little, although when he ceased the effort, he could sense the mud beginning to flow over him and it was warm and an added safety factor. He settled as deeply, as compactly as he could, the contentment deepening, a lassitude spreading through him. With the mud spreading over him, in no matter how thin a layer, he was shielded from view. The likelihood was that no prowling predator would detect him, snap him up. It is good, he thought smugly to himself. There was no need to move, no necessity to invite attack by moving. He had everything he needed. He had eaten until food no longer had attraction for him. He was warm and safe. He could remain motionless, exert no effort.
    And yet there was, he found, an internal nagging that arose once he was all settled in full enjoyment of contentment. A question that never had come on him before, for up until this instant, there had been no question of any sort at all. Until now he had not been aware there was such a thing as question. He existed, that was all. He had never cared what he might be. The matter of identity had never arisen.
    He stirred uneasily, befuddled and upset that the question should arise to so disturb him. And that was not the worst of it. There was something else. It was as if he were not himself, not he who had found the question, the question not internal to him but coming from somewhere outside himself. And there was nothing outside himself—nothing but the warmth of the shallow sea, the softness of the bottom mud and the knowledge that the fearful shadow avid to gulp him down was not present now, could not see him now, that he was safe from the prowling predator that snapped up trilobites.
    â€œMy God!” he thought in sudden fear and wonder. “I’m a trilobite!”
    With the words, the utter darkness faded and then flickered off, and he was once again sitting in the chair and Ecuyer was standing in front of him, holding the helmet in his hands. Tennyson let out his breath in a gust and stared up at Ecuyer.
    â€œEcuyer, you said a random cube. That was not a random cube.”
    Ecuyer grinned at him. “No, I would think not. You recall the sensitive I told you of.”
    â€œYes, the man who was a trilobite. But it was so real!”
    â€œRest assured, my friend,” said Ecuyer. “This was no shadow show. No entertainment stunt. For a while there, you were a trilobite.”

Chapter Fourteen
    When Tennyson returned to his suite, Jill was sitting in front of the fireplace. He hurried across the