The Dream Master by Roger Zelazny Page A

thee, and thou hast departed. Never again will I see thee in this life, hear again the music of thy voice, feel again the thunder of thy touch. I loved thee, and I am forsaken and alone. I loved thee, and my words fell upon ears that were deaf and my self upon eyes that saw not. Am I not fair, oh winds of the Earth, who wash me over, who stoke these, my fires? Why then hast thou forsaken me, oh life of the heart in my breast? I go now to the flame my father, to better be received. In all the passes of loving, there will never be another such as thee. May the gods bless thee and sustain thee, oh light, and may their judgment not come too heavy upon thee for this thing thou hast done. Aeneas, I burn for thee! Fire, be my last love!”
    There was applause as she swayed within the lighted circle and fell. Then the room was darkened.
    A moment later the light was restored, and the other members of the Act a Myth Club rose and came forward to congratulate her on her perceptive interpretation. They discussed the significance of the folk-motif, from the suttee to the immolation of Brunhilde. Good, basic—fire—they decided. “Fire… my last love”—good: Eros and Thanatos in a final cleansing burst of flame.
    After they had used up their appreciation, a small, stooped man and his birdlike, birdtracked wife moved to the center of the room.
    “Heloise and Abelard,” the man announced.
    A respectful silence gathered about them.
    A beefy man in his middle-forties moved to his side, face glazed with perspiration.
    “My chief castrater,” said Abelard.
    The big man smiled and bowed.
    “Now, let us begin…”
    There was a single clap and darkness fell.
    Like deep-burrowing, mythological worms, power lines, pipelines, and pneumatic tubes stretch themselves across the continent. Pulsing, peristalsis-like, they drink of the Earth and the thunderbolt. They take oil and electricity and water and coal-wash and small parcels and large packages and letters into themselves. Passing through them, beneath the Earth, these things are excreted at their proper destinations, and the machines who work in these places take over from there.
    Blind, they sprawl far away from the sun; without taste, the Earth and the thunderbolt go undigested; without smell or hearing, the Earth is their rock-filled prison. They only know what they touch; and touching is their constant function.
    Such is the deep-buried joy of the worm.
    Render had spoken with the staff psychologist and had inspected the physical education equipment at the new school. He had also inspected the students’ quarters and had been satisfied.
    Now, though, as he left Peter once again at the place of education, he felt somehow dissatisfied. He was not certain why. Everything had seemed in as good order as it had been when first he had visited. Peter had seemed in high spirits, too. Exceptionally high spirits.
    He returned to his car and drifted out onto the highway—that great rootless tree whose branches covered two continents (and once the Bering Bridgeway was completed would enfold the world, saving only Australia, the polar icecaps, and islands)—he wondered, and wondering, he found no answer to his discontent.
    Should he call Jill and ask about her cold? Or was she still angry over her coat and the Christmas that had accompanied it?
    His hands fell into his lap, and the countryside jumped up and down around him as he moved through the ranks of the hills.
    His hand twitched toward the panel once more.
    “Hello?”
    “Eileen, Render here. I didn’t get to call you when it happened, but I heard about that tracheotomy you performed at the Play House…”
    “Yes,” she said, “good thing I was handy—me and a sharp knife. Where are you calling from?”
    “My car. I just left Peter at school. On my way back now.”
    “Oh? How is he? His ankle…?”
    “Fine. We had a little scare there at Christmas, but nothing came of it. Tell me how it happened at the Play House, if it