The courts of chaos by Roger Zelazny Page A

bad.”
    “The whole problem lies with the self, the ego, and its involvement with the world on the one hand and the Absolute on the other.”
    “Oh, is that so?”
    “Yes. You see, we are hatched and we drift on the surface of events. Sometimes, we feel that we actually influence things, and this gives rise to striving. This is a big mistake, because it creates desires and builds up a false ego when just being should be enough. That leads to more desires and more striving and there you are, trapped.”
    “In the mud?”
    “So to speak. One needs to fix one’s vision firmly on the Absolute and learn to ignore the mirages, the illusions, the fake sense of identity which sets one apart as a false island of consciousness.”
    “I had a fake identity once. It helped me a lot in becoming the absolute that I am now-me.”
    “No, that’s fake, too.”
    “Then the me that may exist tomorrow will thank me for it, as I do that other.”
    “You are missing the point. That you will be fake, too.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it will still be full of those desires and strivings that set you apart from the Absolute.”
    “What is wrong with that?”
    “You remain alone in a world of strangers, the world of phenomena.”
    “I like being alone. I am quite fond of myself. I like phenomena, too.”
    “Yet the Absolute will always be there, calling to you, causing unrest.”
    “Good, then there is no need to hurry. But yes, I see what you mean. It takes the form of ideals. Everyone has a few. If you are saying that I should pursue them, I agree with you.”
    “No, they are distortions of the Absolute, and what you are talking about is more striving.”
    “That is correct.”
    “I can see that you have a lot to unlearn.”
    “If you are talking about my vulgar instinct for survival, forget it.”
    The trail had been leading upward, and we came now to a smooth, level place, almost paved-seeming, though strewn lightly with sand. The music had grown louder and continued to do so as I advanced. Then, through the fog, I saw dim shapes moving, slowly, rhythmically. It took several moments for me to realize that they were dancing to the music.
    I kept moving until I could view the figures-human seeming, handsome folk, garbed in courtly attire-treading to the slow measures of invisible musicians. It was an intricate and lovely dance that they executed, and I halted to watch some of it.
    “What is the occasion,” I asked Hugi, “for a party out here in the middle of nowhere?”
    “They dance,” he said, “to celebrate your passage. They are not mortals, but the spirits of Time. They began this foolish show when you entered the valley.”
    “Spirits?”
    “Yes. Observe.”
    He left my shoulder, flew above them and defecated. The dropping passed through several dancers as if they were holograms, without staining a brocaded sleeve or a silken shirt, without causing any of the smiling figures to miss a measure. Hugi cawed several times then and flew back to me.
    “That was hardly necessary,” I said. “It is a fine performance.”
    “Decadent,” he said, “and you should hardly take it as a compliment, for they anticipate your failure. They but wish to get in a final celebration before the show is closed.”
    I watched for a time anyway, leaning upon my staff, resting. The figure described by the dancers slowly shifted, until one of the women-an auburn-haired beauty-was quite near to me. Now, none of the dancers’ eyes at any time met my own. It was as if I were not present. But that woman, in a perfectly timed gesture, cast with her right hand something which landed at my feet.
    I stooped and found it substantial. It was a silver rose-my own emblem-that I held. I straightened and fixed it at the collar of my cloak. Hugi looked the other way and said nothing. I had no hat to doff, but I did bow to the lady. There might have been a slight twitch at her right eye as I turned to go.
    The ground lost its smoothness as I walked, and