{"id":5370,"date":"2023-04-12T08:35:56","date_gmt":"2023-04-12T12:35:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/?p=5370&#038;preview=true&#038;preview_id=5370"},"modified":"2023-10-27T13:46:17","modified_gmt":"2023-10-27T17:46:17","slug":"buffalo","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/buffalo\/","title":{"rendered":"Buffalo"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>[et_pb_section fb_built=&#8221;1&#8243; admin_label=&#8221;section&#8221; module_id=&#8221;post-content-full-wrapper&#8221; _builder_version=&#8221;4.19.2&#8243; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_row column_structure=&#8221;2_5,3_5&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_column type=&#8221;2_5&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_code _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;]<iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https:\/\/www.youtube-nocookie.com\/embed\/K3emXk8IHiQ?vq=hd1080&#038;modestbranding=1&#038;rel=0&#038;cc_load_policy=1&#038;fs=0\" width=\"216\" height=\"384\" title=\"A YouTube video\" frameborder=\"0\"><\/iframe>[\/et_pb_code][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=&#8221;3_5&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_text _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;]<\/p>\n<p>In April of 1934, H. G. Wells traveled to the United States, where he visited Washington, D.C. and met with President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Wells, sixty-eight years old, hoped the New Deal might herald a revolutionary change in the U.S. economy, a step forward in an \u201cOpen Conspiracy\u201d of rational thinkers that would culminate in a world socialist state. For forty years he\u2019d subordinated every scrap of his artistic ambition to promoting this vision. But by 1934, Wells\u2019s optimism, along with his energy for saving the world, was waning.<\/p>\n<p>While in Washington, he asked to see something of the new social welfare agencies, and Harold Ickes, Roosevelt\u2019s Interior Secretary, arranged for Wells to visit a Civilian Conservation Corps camp at Fort Hunt, Virginia.<\/p>\n<p>It happens that at that time my father was a CCC member at that camp. From his boyhood he had been a reader of adventure stories; he was a big fan of Edgar Rice Burroughs, and of H. G. Wells. This is the story of their encounter, which never took place.<\/p>\n<p>[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row admin_label=&#8221;row&#8221; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; background_size=&#8221;initial&#8221; background_position=&#8221;top_left&#8221; background_repeat=&#8221;repeat&#8221; custom_padding=&#8221;0px|||||&#8221; collapsed=&#8221;off&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_column type=&#8221;4_4&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.16&#8243; custom_padding=&#8221;|||&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221; custom_padding__hover=&#8221;|||&#8221;][et_pb_text admin_label=&#8221;Text&#8221; module_id=&#8221;post-content-text-wrapper&#8221; _builder_version=&#8221;4.21.0&#8243; background_size=&#8221;initial&#8221; background_position=&#8221;top_left&#8221; background_repeat=&#8221;repeat&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;]<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>In Buffalo, it\u2019s cold, but here the trees are in bloom, the mockingbirds sing in the mornings, and the sweat the men work up clearing brush, planting dogwoods, and cutting roads is wafted away by warm breeze. Two hundred of them live in the Fort Hunt barracks high on the bluff above the Virginia side of the Potomac. They wear surplus army uniforms. In the morning, after a breakfast of grits, Sgt. Sauter musters them up in the parade yard, they climb onto trucks, and are driven by forest service men out to wherever they\u2019re to work that day.<\/p>\n<p>For several weeks Kessel\u2019s squad has been working along the river road, clearing rest stops and turnarounds. The tall pines have shallow root systems, and spring rain has softened the earth to the point where wind is forever knocking trees across the road. While most of the men work on the ground, a couple are sent up to cut off the tops of the pines adjoining the road, so if they do fall, they won\u2019t block it. Most of the men claim to be afraid of heights. Kessel isn\u2019t. A year or two ago, back in Michigan, he worked in a logging camp. It\u2019s hard work, but he is used to hard work. And at least he\u2019s out of Buffalo.<\/p>\n<p>The truck rumbles and jounces out the river road that\u2019s going to be the George Washington Memorial Parkway in our time, once the WPA project that will build it gets started. The humid air is cool now, but it will be hot again today, in the eighties. A couple of the guys get into a debate about whether the feds will ever catch Dillinger. Some others talk women. They\u2019re planning to go into Washington on the weekend and check out the dance halls. Kessel likes to dance; he\u2019s a good dancer. The fox trot, the lindy hop. When he gets drunk, he likes to sing, and has a ready wit. He talks a lot more, kids the girls.<\/p>\n<p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-5424 alignright\" src=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-TreeWork-300x226.jpg\" alt=\"1930s Man climbing tree to cut it down\" width=\"373\" height=\"281\" srcset=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-TreeWork-300x226.jpg 300w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-TreeWork.jpg 1024w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-TreeWork-768x579.jpg 768w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-TreeWork-1080x815.jpg 1080w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 373px) 100vw, 373px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>When they get to the site, the foreman sets most of the men to work clearing the roadside for a scenic overlook. Kessel straps on a climbing belt, takes an axe, and climbs hisfirst tree. The first twenty feet are limbless, then climbing gets trickier. He looks down only enough to estimate when he\u2019s gotten high enough. He sets himself, cleats biting into the shoulder of a lower limb, and chops away at the road side of the trunk. There\u2019s a trick to cutting the top so that it falls the right way. When he\u2019s got it ready to go, he calls down to warn the men below. Then a few quick bites of the axe on the opposite side of the cut, a shove, a crack, and the top starts to go. He braces his legs, ducks his head and grips the trunk. The treetop skids off and the bole of the pine waves ponderously back and forth, with Kessel swinging at its end like an ant on a metronome. After the pine stops swinging, he shinnies down and climbs the next tree.<\/p>\n<p>He\u2019s good at this work, efficient, careful. He\u2019s not a particularly strong man\u00a0\u2014 slender, not burly\u00a0\u2014 but even in his youth he shows the attention to detail that, as a boy, I remember seeing when he built our house.<\/p>\n<p>The squad works through the morning, then breaks for lunch from the mess truck. The men are always complaining about the food and how there isn\u2019t enough of it, but until recently a lot of them were living in Hoovervilles\u00a0\u2014 shack cities\u00a0\u2014 and eating nothing at all. As they\u2019re eating, a couple of the guys rag Kessel for working too fast. \u201cWhat do you expect from a Yankee?\u201d one of the southern boys says.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHe ain\u2019t a Yankee. He\u2019s a Polack.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Kessel tries to ignore them.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhyn\u2019t you lay off him, Turkel?\u201d says Cole, one of Kessel\u2019s buddies.<\/p>\n<p>Turkel is a big blond guy from Chicago. Some say he joined the CCCs to duck an armed robbery rap. \u201cHe works too hard,\u201d Turkel says. \u201cHe makes us look bad.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDon\u2019t have to work much to make you look bad, Lou,\u201d Cole says. The others laugh, and Kessel appreciates it. \u201cGive Jack some credit. At least he had enough sense to come down out of Buffalo.\u201d More laughter.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThere\u2019s nothing wrong with Buffalo,\u201d Kessel says.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cExcept fifty thousand out-of-work Polacks,\u201d Turkel says.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI guess you got no out-of-work people in Chicago,\u201d Kessel says. \u201cYou just joined for the exercise.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cExcept he\u2019s not getting any exercise, if he can help it!\u201d Cole says.<\/p>\n<p>The foreman comes by and tells them to get back to work. Kessel climbs another tree, stung by Turkel\u2019s charge. What kind of man complains if someone else works hard? It only shows how even decent guys have to put up with assholes dragging them down. But it\u2019s nothing new. He\u2019s seen it before, back in Buffalo.<\/p>\n<p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignleft\" title=\"Source Heritage Press\" src=\"https:\/\/wnyheritagepress.com\/content\/buffalo_city_block_demolished_1895\/image_4-166-608w.jpg\" alt=\"Buffalo NY circu 1900s\" width=\"537\" height=\"556\" \/>Buffalo, New York, is the symbolic home of this story. In the years preceding the First World War it grew into one of the great industrial metropolises of the United States. Located where Lake Erie flows into the Niagara river, strategically close to cheap electricity from Niagara Falls and cheap transportation by lakeboat from the midwest, it was a center of steel, automobiles, chemicals, grain milling, and brewing. Its major employers\u00a0\u2014 Bethlehem Steel, Ford, Pierce Arrow, Gold Medal Flour, the National Biscuit Company, Ralston Purina, Quaker Oats, National Aniline\u00a0\u2014 drew thousands of immigrants like Kessel\u2019s family. Along Delaware Avenue stood the imperious and stylized mansions of the city\u2019s old money, ersatz-Renaissance homes designed by Stanford White, huge Protestant churches, and a Byzantine synagogue. The city boasted the first modern skyscraper, designed by Louis Sullivan in the 1890s. From its productive factories to its polyglot work force to its class system and its boosterism, Buffalo was a monument to modern industrial capitalism. It is the place Kessel has come from\u00a0\u2014 almost an expression of his personality itself\u00a0\u2014 and the place he, at times, fears he can never escape. A cold, grimy city dominated by church and family, blinkered and cramped, forever playing second fiddle to Chicago, New York, and Boston. It offers the immigrant the opportunity to find steady work in some factory or mill, but, though Kessel could not have put it into these words, it also puts a lid on his opportunities. It stands for all disappointed expectations, human limitations, tawdry compromises, for the inevitable choice of the expedient over the beautiful, for an American economic system that turns all things into commodities and measures men by their bank accounts. It is the home of the industrial proletariat.<\/p>\n<p>It\u2019s not unique. It could be Youngstown, Akron, Detroit. It\u2019s the place my father, and I, grew up.<\/p>\n<p>The afternoon turns hot and still; during a work break, Kessel strips to the waist. About two o\u2019clock, a big black de Soto comes up the road and pulls off onto the shoulder. A couple of men in suits get out of the back, and one of them talks to the Forest Service foreman, who nods deferentially. The foreman calls over to the men.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBoys, this here\u2019s Mr. Pike from the Interior Department. He\u2019s got a guest here to see how we work, a writer, Mr. H. G. Wells from England.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Most of the men couldn\u2019t care less, but the name strikes a spark in Kessel. He looks over at the little, pot-bellied man in the dark suit. The man is sweating; he brushes his mustache.<\/p>\n<p>The foreman sends Kessel up to show them how they\u2019re topping the trees. He points out to the visitors where the others with rakes and shovels are leveling the ground for the overlook. Several other men are building a log rail fence from the treetops. From way above, Kessel can hear their voices between the thunks of his axe. H. G. Wells. He remembers reading\u00a0<i>The War of the Worlds<\/i>\u00a0in\u00a0<i>Amazing Stories.<\/i>\u00a0He\u2019s read\u00a0<i>The Outline of History,<\/i>\u00a0too. The stories, the history, are so large, it seems impossible that the man who wrote them could be standing not thirty feet below him. He tries to concentrate on the axe, the tree.<\/p>\n<p>Time for this one to go. He calls down. The men below look up. Wells takes off his hat and shields his eyes with his hand. He\u2019s balding, and looks even smaller from up here. Strange that such big ideas could come from such a small man. It\u2019s kind of disappointing. Wells leans over to Pike and says something. The treetop falls away. The pine sways like a bucking bronco, and Kessel holds on for dear life.<\/p>\n<p>He comes down with the intention of saying something to Wells, telling him how much he admires him, but when he gets down the sight of the two men in suits and his awareness of his own sweaty chest make him timid. He heads down to the next tree. After another ten minutes the men get back in the car, drive away. Kessel curses himself for the opportunity lost.<\/p>\n<p class=\"center\" style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-5432 alignleft \" src=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Dinner3-300x173.jpg\" alt=\"H.G. Wells, Clarence Darrow, and Charles Russel have drinks.\" width=\"337\" height=\"194\" srcset=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Dinner3-300x173.jpg 300w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Dinner3.jpg 1024w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Dinner3-768x443.jpg 768w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Dinner3-1536x886.jpg 1536w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Dinner3-1080x623.jpg 1080w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 337px) 100vw, 337px\" \/>That evening at the New Willard hotel, Wells dines with his old friends Clarence Darrow and Charles Russell. Darrow and Russell are in Washington to testify before a congressional committee on a report they have just submitted to the administration concerning the monopolistic effects of the National Recovery Act. The right wing is trying to eviscerate Roosevelt\u2019s program for large scale industrial management, and the Darrow Report is playing right into their hands. Wells tries, with little success, to convince Darrow of the short-sightedness of his position.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cRoosevelt is willing to sacrifice the small man to the huge corporations,\u201d Darrow insists, his eyes bright.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThe small man? Your small man is a romantic fantasy,\u201d Wells says. \u201cIt\u2019s not the New Deal that\u2019s doing him in\u00a0\u2014 it\u2019s the process of industrial progress. It\u2019s the twentieth century. You can\u2019t legislate yourself back into 1870.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat about the individual?\u201d Russell asks.<\/p>\n<p>Wells snorts. \u201cWalk out into the street. The individual is out on the street corner selling apples. The only thing that\u2019s going to save him is some coordinated effort, by intelligent, selfless men. Not your free market.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Darrow puffs on his cigar, exhales, smiles. \u201cDon\u2019t get exasperated, H. G. We\u2019re not working for Standard Oil. But if I have to choose between the bureaucrat and the man pumping gas at the filling station, I\u2019ll take the pump jockey.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wells sees he\u2019s got no chance against the American mythology of the common man. \u201cYour pump jockey works for Standard Oil. And the last I checked, the free market hasn\u2019t expended much energy looking out for his interests.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHave some more wine,\u201d Russell says.<\/p>\n<p>Russell refills their glasses with the excellent Bordeaux. It\u2019s been a first rate meal. Wells finds the debate stimulating even when he can\u2019t prevail; at one time that would have been enough, but as the years go on the need to prevail grows stronger in him. The times are out of joint, and when he looks around he sees desperation growing. A new world order is necessary\u00a0\u2014 it\u2019s so clear that even a fool ought to see it\u00a0\u2014 but if he can\u2019t even convince radicals like Darrow, what hope is there of gaining the acquiescence of the shareholders in the utility trusts?<\/p>\n<p>The answer is that the changes will have to be made over their objections. As Roosevelt seems prepared to do. Wells\u2019s dinner with the President has heartened him in a way that this debate cannot negate.<\/p>\n<p>Wells brings up an item he read in the\u00a0<i>Washington Post.<\/i>\u00a0A lecturer for the communist party\u00a0\u2014 a young Negro\u00a0\u2014 was barred from speaking at the University of Virginia. Wells\u2019s question is, was the man barred because he was a communist or because he was Negro?<\/p>\n<p>\u201cEither condition,\u201d Darrow says sardonically, \u201cis fatal in Virginia.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBut students point out the University has allowed communists to speak on campus before, and has allowed Negroes to perform music there.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey can perform, but they can\u2019t speak,\u201d Russell says. \u201cThis isn\u2019t unusual. Go down to the Paradise Ballroom, not a mile from here. There\u2019s a Negro orchestra playing there, but no Negroes are allowed inside to listen.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou should go to hear them anyway,\u201d Darrow says. \u201cIt\u2019s Duke Ellington. Have you heard of him?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI don\u2019t get on with the titled nobility,\u201d Wells quips.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOh, this Ellington\u2019s a noble fellow, all right, but I don\u2019t think you\u2019ll find him in the peerage,\u201d Russell says.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHe plays jazz, doesn\u2019t he?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNot like any jazz you\u2019ve heard,\u201d Darrow says. \u201cIt\u2019s something totally new. You should find a place for it in one of your utopias.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>All three of them are for helping the colored peoples. Darrow has defended Negroes accused of capital crimes. Wells, on his first visit to America almost thirty years ago, met with Booker T. Washington and came away impressed, although he still considers the peaceable co-existence of the white and colored races problematical.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat are you working on now, Wells?\u201d Russell asks. \u201cWhat new improbability are you preparing to assault us with? Racial equality? Sexual liberation?\u201d<\/p>\n<p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignright wp-image-5435 \" src=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Wells-ShapeofThings-194x300.jpg\" alt=\"H.G. Wells book The Shape of Things to Come\" width=\"211\" height=\"326\" srcset=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Wells-ShapeofThings-194x300.jpg 194w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Wells-ShapeofThings.jpg 663w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Wells-ShapeofThings-768x1187.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 211px) 100vw, 211px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m writing a screen treatment based on\u00a0<i>The Shape of Things to Come,\u201d <\/i>Wells says. He tells them about his screenplay, sketching out for them the future he has in his mind. An apocalyptic war, a war of unsurpassed brutality that will begin, in his film, in 1939. In this war, the creations of science will be put to the services of destruction in ways that will make the horrors of the Great War pale in comparison. Whole populations will be exterminated. But then, out of the ruins will arise the new world. The orgy of violence will purge the human race of the last vestiges of tribal thinking. Then will come the organization of the directionless and weak by the intelligent and purposeful. The new man. Cleaner, stronger, more rational. Wells can see it. He talks on, supplely, surely, late into the night. His mind is fertile with invention, still. He can see that Darrow and Russell, despite their Yankee individualism, are caught up by his vision. The future may be threatened, but it is not entirely closed.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align:center;\">* * *<\/p>\n<p>Friday night, back in the barracks at Fort Hunt, Kessel lies on his bunk reading a second-hand\u00a0<i>Wonder Stories.<\/i>\u00a0He\u2019s halfway through the tale of a scientist who invents an evolution chamber that progresses him through 50,000 years of evolution in an hour, turning him into a big-brained telepathic monster. The evolved scientist is totally without emotions and wants to control the world. But his body\u2019s atrophied. Will the hero, a young engineer, be able to stop him?<\/p>\n<p>At a plank table in the aisle, a bunch of men are playing poker for cigarettes. They\u2019re talking about women and dogs. Cole throws in his hand and comes over to sit on the next bunk. \u201cStill reading that stuff, Jack?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDon\u2019t knock it until you\u2019ve tried it.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAre you coming into D.C. with us tomorrow? Sgt. Sauter says we can catch a ride in on one of the trucks.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Kessel thinks about it. Cole probably wants to borrow some money. Two days after he gets his monthly pay he\u2019s broke. He\u2019s always looking for a good time. Kessel spends his leave more quietly; he usually walks into Alexandria\u00a0\u2014 about six miles\u00a0\u2014 and sees a movie or just walks around town. Still, he would like to see more of Washington. \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Cole looks at the sketchbook poking out from beneath Kessel\u2019s pillow. \u201cAny more hot pictures?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Immediately Kessel regrets trusting Cole. Yet there\u2019s not much he can say\u00a0\u2014 the book is full of pictures of movie stars he\u2019s drawn. \u201cI\u2019m learning to draw. And at least I don\u2019t waste my time like the rest of you guys.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Cole looks serious. \u201cYou know, you\u2019re not any better than the rest of us,\u201d he says, not angrily. \u201cYou\u2019re just another Polack. Don\u2019t get so high-and-mighty.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cJust because I want to improve myself doesn\u2019t mean I\u2019m high-and-mighty.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHey, Cole, are you in or out?\u201d Turkel yells from the table.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDream on, Jack,\u201d Cole says, and returns to the game.<\/p>\n<p>Kessel tries to go back to the story, but he isn\u2019t interested anymore. He can figure out that the hero is going to defeat the hyper-evolved scientist in the end. He folds his arms behind his head and stares at the knots in the rafters.<\/p>\n<p>It\u2019s true, Kessel does spend a lot of time dreaming. But he has things he wants to do, and he\u2019s not going to waste his life drinking and whoring like the rest of them.<\/p>\n<p>Kessel\u2019s always been different. Quieter, smarter. He was always going to do something better than the rest of them; he\u2019s well spoken, he likes to read. Even though he didn\u2019t finish high school, he reads everything:\u00a0<i>Amazing, Astounding, Wonder Stories.<\/i>\u00a0He believes in the future. He doesn\u2019t want to end up trapped in some factory his whole life.<\/p>\n<p>Kessel\u2019s parents immigrated from Poland in 1911. Their name was Kisiel, but his got Germanized in Catholic school. For ten years the family moved from one to another middle-sized industrial town, as Joe Kisiel bounced from job to job. Springfield. Utica. Syracuse. Rochester. Kessel remembers them loading up a wagon in the middle of the night with all their belongings in order to jump the rent on the run-down house in Syracuse. He remembers pulling a cart down to the Utica Club brewery, a nickel in his hand, to buy his father a keg of beer. He remembers them finally settling in the First Ward of Buffalo. The First Ward, at the foot of the Erie Canal, was an Irish neighborhood as far back as anybody could remember, and the Kisiels were the only Poles there. That\u2019s where he developed his chameleon ability to fit in, despite the fact he wanted nothing more than to get out. But he had to protect his mother, sister, and little brothers from their father\u2019s drunken rages. When Joe Kisiel died in 1924, it was a relief, despite the fact that his son ended up supporting the family.<\/p>\n<p>For ten years Kessel has strained against the tug of that responsibility. He\u2019s sought the free and easy feeling of the road, of places different from where he grew up, romantic places where the sun shines and he can make something entirely American of himself.<\/p>\n<p>Despite his ambitions, he\u2019s never accomplished much. He\u2019s been essentially a drifter, moving from job to job. Starting as a pinsetter in a bowling alley, he moved on to a flour mill. He would have stayed in the mill, only he developed an allergy to the flour dust, so he became an electrician. He would have stayed an electrician, except he had a fight with a boss and got blacklisted. He left Buffalo because of his father; he kept coming back because of his mother. When the Depression hit, he tried to get a job in Detroit at the auto factories, but that was plain stupid in the face of the universal collapse, and he ended up working up in the peninsula as a farm hand, then as a logger. It was seasonal work, and when the season was over he was out of a job. In the winter of 1933, rather than freeze his ass off in northern Michigan, he joined the CCC. Now he sends twenty-five of his thirty dollars a month back to his mother and sister back in Buffalo. And imagines the future.<\/p>\n<p>When he thinks about it, there are two futures. The first one is the one from the magazines and books. Bright, slick, easy. We, looking back on it, can see it to be the fifteen-cent utopianism of Hugo Gernsback\u2019s\u00a0<i>Popular Electrics<\/i>\u00a0that flourished in the midst of the Depression. A degradation of the marvelous inventions that made Wells his early reputation, minus the social theorizing that drove Wells\u2019s technological speculations. The common man\u2019s boosterism. There\u2019s money to be made telling people like Jack Kessel about the wonderful world of the future.<\/p>\n<p>The second future is Kessel\u2019s own. That one\u2019s a lot harder to see. It contains work. A good job, doing something he likes, using his skills. Not working for another man, but making something that would be useful for others. Building something for the future. And a woman, a gentle woman, for his wife. Not some cheap dancehall queen.<\/p>\n<p>So when Kessel saw H. G. Wells in person, that meant something to him. He\u2019s had his doubts. He\u2019s twenty-nine years old, not a kid anymore. If he\u2019s ever going to get anywhere, it\u2019s going to have to start happening soon. He has the feeling that something significant is going to happen to him. Wells is a man who sees the future. He moves in that bright world where things make sense. He represents something that Kessel wants.<\/p>\n<p>But the last thing Kessel wants is to end up back in Buffalo.<\/p>\n<p>He pulls the sketchbook, the sketchbook he was to show me twenty years later, from under his pillow. He turns past drawings of movie stars: Jean Harlow, Mae West, Carole Lombard\u00a0\u2014 the beautiful, unreachable faces of his longing\u00a0\u2014 and of natural scenes: rivers, forests, birds\u00a0\u2014 to a blank page. The page is as empty as the future, waiting for him to write upon it. He lets his imagination soar. He envisions an eagle, gliding high above the mountains of the west that he has never seen, but that he knows he will visit someday. The eagle is America; it is his own dreams. He begins to draw.<\/p>\n<p>[\/et_pb_text][et_pb_code _builder_version=&#8221;4.21.0&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;]<!--more-->[\/et_pb_code][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=&#8221;1_3,1_3,1_3&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_column type=&#8221;1_3&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_image src=&#8221;https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Harlow.jpg&#8221; alt=&#8221;Pencil drawing of Jean Harlow&#8221; title_text=&#8221;Kessel-Buffalo-Harlow&#8221; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; scroll_vertical_motion_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_vertical_motion=&#8221;0|50|50|100|4|0|0&#8243; scroll_horizontal_motion_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_horizontal_motion=&#8221;0|50|50|100|4|0|0&#8243; scroll_fade_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; motion_trigger_start=&#8221;top&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=&#8221;1_3&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_image src=&#8221;https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-MaeWest.jpg&#8221; alt=&#8221;Pencil drawing of Mae West&#8221; title_text=&#8221;Kessel-Buffalo-MaeWest&#8221; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; scroll_fade_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_fade=&#8221;0|25|25|100|0|100|100&#8243; scroll_scaling_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_blur_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_blur=&#8221;0|25|60|100|10|0|0&#8243; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=&#8221;1_3&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_image src=&#8221;https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Lombard.jpg&#8221; alt=&#8221;Pencil Drawing of Carole Lombard&#8221; title_text=&#8221;Kessel-Buffalo-Lombard&#8221; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; scroll_vertical_motion_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_vertical_motion=&#8221;0|50|50|100|-4|0|0&#8243; scroll_horizontal_motion_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_horizontal_motion=&#8221;0|50|50|100|-4|0|0&#8243; scroll_fade_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_fade=&#8221;0|25|25|100|0|100|100&#8243; motion_trigger_start=&#8221;top&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_column type=&#8221;4_4&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_image src=&#8221;https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/04\/Kessel-Buffalo-Notebook.jpg&#8221; alt=&#8221;Open sketchbook with one blank page and one nature pencil drawing.&#8221; title_text=&#8221;Kessel-Buffalo-Notebook&#8221; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_column type=&#8221;4_4&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_text _builder_version=&#8221;4.21.0&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;]<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>Kessel did not know that Wells\u2019s life has not worked out as well as he planned. At that moment, Wells is pining after the Russian \u00e9migr\u00e9 Moura Budberg, once Maxim Gorky\u2019s secretary, with whom Wells has been carrying on an off-and-on affair since 1920. His wife of thirty years, Amy Catherine \u201cJane\u201d Wells, died in 1927. Since that time, Wells has been adrift, alternating spells of furious pamphleteering with listless periods of suicidal depression. Meanwhile, all London is gossiping about the recent attack published in <i>Time and Tide<\/i>\u00a0by his vengeful ex-lover Odette Keun. Have his mistakes followed him across the Atlantic to undermine his purpose? Does Darrow think him a jumped-up Cockney? A moment of doubt overwhelms him. In the end, the future depends as much on the open mindedness of men like Darrow as it does on a reorganization of society. What good is a guild of samurai if no one arises to take the job?<\/p>\n<p>Wells doesn\u2019t like the trend of these thoughts. If human nature lets him down, then his whole life has been a waste.<\/p>\n<p>But he\u2019s seen the president. He\u2019s seen those workers on the road. Those men climbing the trees risk their lives without complaining, for minimal pay. It\u2019s easy to think of them as stupid or desperate or simply young, but it\u2019s also possible to give them credit for dedication to their work. They don\u2019t seem to be ridden by the desire to grub and clutch that capitalism demands; if you look at it properly that may be the explanation for their ending up wards of the state. And is Wells any better? If he hadn\u2019t got an education, he would have ended up a miserable draper\u2019s assistant.<\/p>\n<p>Wells is due to leave for New York Sunday. Saturday night finds him sitting in his room, trying to write, after a solitary dinner in the New Willard. Another bottle of wine, or his age, has stirred something in Wells, and despite his rationalizations, he finds himself near despair. Moura has rejected him. He needs the soft, supportive embrace of a lover, but instead he has this stuffy hotel room in a heat wave.<\/p>\n<p>He remembers writing\u00a0<i>The Time Machine,<\/i>\u00a0he and Jane living in rented rooms in Sevenoaks with her ailing mother, worried about money, about whether the landlady would put them out. In the drawer of the dresser was a writ from the court that refused to grant him a divorce from his wife Isabel. He remembers a warm night, late in August\u00a0\u2014 much like this one\u00a0\u2014 sitting up late after Jane and her mother went to bed, writing at the round table before the open window, under the light of a paraffin lamp. One part of his mind was caught up in the rush of creation, burning, following the Time Traveller back to the sphinx, pursued by the Morlocks, only to discover that his machine is gone and he is trapped without escape from his desperate circumstance. At the same moment he could hear the landlady, out in the garden, fully aware that he could hear her, complaining to the neighbor about his and Jane\u2019s scandalous habits. On the one side, the petty conventions of a crabbed world; on the other, in his mind\u00a0\u2014 the future, their peril and hope. Moths fluttering through the window beat themselves against the lampshade and fell onto the manuscript; he brushed them away unconsciously and continued, furiously, in a white heat. The Time Traveller, battered and hungry, returning from the future with a warning, and a flower.<\/p>\n<p>He opens the hotel windows all the way, but the curtains aren\u2019t stirred by a breath of air. Below, in the street, he hears the sound of traffic, and music. He decides to send a telegram to Moura, but after several false starts, he finds he has nothing to say. Why has she refused to marry him? Maybe he is finally too old, and the magnetism of sex or power or intellect that has drawn women to him for forty years has finally all been squandered. The prospect of spending the last years remaining to him alone fills him with dread.<\/p>\n<p>He turns on the radio, gets successive band shows: Morton Downey, Fats Waller. Jazz. Paging through the newspaper, he comes across an advertisement for the Ellington orchestra Darrow mentioned: It\u2019s at the ballroom just down the block. But the thought of a smoky room doesn\u2019t appeal to him. He considers the cinema. He has never been much for the \u201cmovies.\u201d Though he thinks them an unrivaled opportunity to educate, that promise has never been properly seized\u00a0\u2014 something he hopes to do in\u00a0<i>Things to Come.<\/i>\u00a0The newspaper reveals an uninspiring selection:\u00a0<i>Twenty Million Sweethearts,<\/i>\u00a0a musical at the Earle,\u00a0<i>The Black Cat,<\/i>\u00a0with Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi at the Rialto, and\u00a0<i>Tarzan and His Mate<\/i>\u00a0at the Palace. To these Americans, he is the equivalent of this hack, Edgar Rice Burroughs. The books I read as a child, that fired my father\u2019s imagination and my own, Wells considers his frivolous apprentice work. His serious work is discounted. His ideas mean nothing.<\/p>\n<p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-5453 alignleft \" src=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Trazan-Mate-300x236.jpg\" alt=\"1930s Image for movie Tarzan and His Mate\" width=\"441\" height=\"347\" srcset=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Trazan-Mate-300x236.jpg 300w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Trazan-Mate-768x605.jpg 768w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Trazan-Mate.jpg 1000w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 441px) 100vw, 441px\" \/>Wells decides to try the Tarzan movie. He dresses for the sultry weather\u00a0\u2014 Washington in spring is like high summer in London\u00a0\u2014 and goes down to the lobby. He checks his street guide and takes the streetcar to the Palace Theater, where he buys an orchestra seat, for twenty-five cents, to see\u00a0<i>Tarzan and His Mate.<\/i><\/p>\n<p>It is a perfectly wretched movie, comprised wholly of romantic fantasy, melodrama, and sexual innuendo. The dramatic leads perform with wooden idiocy surpassed only by the idiocy of the screenplay. Wells is attracted by the undeniable charms of the young heroine, Maureen O\u2019Sullivan, but the film is devoid of intellectual content. Thinking of the audience at which such a farrago must be aimed depresses him. This is art as fodder. Yet the theater is filled, and the people are held in rapt attention. This only depresses Wells more. If these citizens are the future of America, then the future of America is dim.<\/p>\n<p>An hour into the film, the antics of an anthropomorphized chimpanzee, a scene of transcendent stupidity which nevertheless sends the audience into gales of laughter, drives Wells from the theater. It is still mid-evening. He wanders down the avenue of theaters, restaurants, and clubs. On the sidewalk are beggars, ignored by the passersby. In an alley behind a hotel, Wells spots a woman and child picking through the ashcans beside the restaurant kitchen.<\/p>\n<p>Unexpectedly, he comes upon the marquee announcing \u201cDuke Ellington and his Orchestra.\u201d From within the open doors of the ballroom wafts the sound of jazz. Impulsively, Wells buys a ticket and goes in.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align:center;\">* * *<\/p>\n<p>Kessel and his cronies have spent the day walking around the mall, which the WPA is re-landscaping. They\u2019ve seen the Lincoln Memorial, the Capitol, the Washington Monument, the Smithsonian, the White House. Kessel has his picture taken in front of a statue of a soldier\u00a0\u2014 a photo I have sitting on my desk. I\u2019ve studied it many times. He looks forthrightly into the camera, faintly smiling. His face is confident, unlined.<\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_5454\" style=\"width: 497px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-5454\" class=\"wp-image-5454\" src=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Father2.jpeg\" alt=\"John Kessel photo of his father posing in front of a statue\" width=\"487\" height=\"691\" srcset=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Father2.jpeg 509w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Father2-211x300.jpeg 211w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 487px) 100vw, 487px\" \/><p id=\"caption-attachment-5454\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Kessel&#8217;s father circa 1930s<\/p><\/div>\n<p>When night comes, they hit the bars. Prohibition was lifted only last year and the novelty has not yet worn off. The younger men get plastered, but Kessel finds himself uninterested in getting drunk. A couple of them set their minds on women and head for the Gayety Burlesque; Cole, Kessel, and Turkel end up in the Paradise Ballroom listening to Duke Ellington.<\/p>\n<p>They have a couple of drinks, ask some girls to dance. Kessel dances with a short girl with a southern accent who refuses to look him in the eyes. After thanking her he returns to the others at the bar. He sips his beer. \u201cNot so lucky, Jack?\u201d Cole says.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cShe doesn\u2019t like a tall man,\u201d Turkel says.<\/p>\n<p>Kessel wonders why Turkel came along. Turkel is always complaining about \u201cniggers,\u201d and his only comment on the Ellington band so far has been to complain about how a bunch of jigs can make a living playing jungle music while white men sleep in barracks and eat grits three times a day. Kessel\u2019s got nothing against the colored, and he likes the music, though it\u2019s not exactly the kind of jazz he\u2019s used to. It doesn\u2019t sound much like Dixieland. It\u2019s darker, bigger, more dangerous. Ellington, resplendent in tie and tails, looks like he\u2019s enjoying himself up there at his piano, knocking out minimal solos while the orchestra plays cool and low.<\/p>\n<p>[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=&#8221;1_3,1_3,1_3&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_column type=&#8221;1_3&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_image src=&#8221;https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Duke1.jpg&#8221; alt=&#8221;Illustration Duke Ellington&#8221; title_text=&#8221;Kessel-Buffalo-Duke1&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; scroll_vertical_motion_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_vertical_motion=&#8221;0|50|50|100|2|0|0&#8243; scroll_horizontal_motion_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_horizontal_motion=&#8221;0|50|50|100|2|0|0&#8243; motion_trigger_start=&#8221;top&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=&#8221;1_3&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_code _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; scroll_fade_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_fade=&#8221;0|25|25|100|0|100|100&#8243; scroll_blur_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_blur=&#8221;0|20|43|100|10px|1px|0px&#8221; motion_trigger_start=&#8221;top&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;]<iframe loading=\"lazy\" width=\"400\" height=\"225\" src=\"https:\/\/www.youtube-nocookie.com\/embed\/qDQpZT3GhDg?controls=0&#038;start=10\" title=\"YouTube video player\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" allowfullscreen><\/iframe>[\/et_pb_code][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=&#8221;1_3&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_image src=&#8221;https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/02\/Kessel-Buffalo-Duke2.jpg&#8221; alt=&#8221;Duke Ellington in front of a crowd&#8221; title_text=&#8221;Kessel-Buffalo-Duke2&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; scroll_vertical_motion_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_vertical_motion=&#8221;0|50|50|100|2|0|0&#8243; scroll_horizontal_motion_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_horizontal_motion=&#8221;0|50|50|100|-2|0|0&#8243; scroll_fade_enable=&#8221;on&#8221; scroll_fade=&#8221;0|20|20|100|0|100|100&#8243; motion_trigger_start=&#8221;top&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_column type=&#8221;4_4&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_text _builder_version=&#8221;4.21.0&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;]<\/p>\n<p>Turning from them to look across the tables, Kessel sees a little man sitting alone beside the dance floor, watching the young couples sway in the music. To his astonishment, he recognizes Wells. He\u2019s been given another chance. Hesitating only a moment, Kessel abandons his friends, goes over to the table, and introduces himself.<\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_5482\" style=\"width: 220px\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-5482\" class=\"wp-image-5482 size-medium\" src=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/04\/Kessel-Buffalo-Father1-210x300.jpeg\" alt=\"John Kessel's father wearing a suit\" width=\"210\" height=\"300\" srcset=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/04\/Kessel-Buffalo-Father1-210x300.jpeg 210w, https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/04\/Kessel-Buffalo-Father1.jpeg 455w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 210px) 100vw, 210px\" \/><p id=\"caption-attachment-5482\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Kessel&#8217;s father circa 1930s<\/p><\/div>\n<p>\u201cExcuse me, Mr. Wells. You might not remember me, but I was one of the men you saw yesterday in Virginia working along the road. The CCC?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wells looks up at a gangling young man wearing a khaki uniform, his olive tie neatly knotted and tucked between the second and third buttons of his shirt. His hair is slicked down, parted in the middle. Wells doesn\u2019t remember anything of him. \u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u00a0\u2014 I been reading your stories and books a lot of years. I admire your work.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Something in the man\u2019s earnestness affects Wells. \u201cPlease sit down,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n<p>Kessel takes a seat. \u201cThank you.\u201d He pronounces \u201cth\u201d as \u201ct\u201d so that \u201cthank\u201d comes out \u201ctank.\u201d He sits tentatively, as if the chair is mortgaged, and seems at a loss for words.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cJohn Kessel. My friends call me Jack.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The orchestra finishes a song and the dancers stop in their places, applauding. Up on the bandstand, Ellington leans into the microphone. \u201cMood Indigo,\u201d he says, and instantly they swing into it: The clarinet moans in low register, in unison with the muted trumpet and trombone, paced by the steady rhythm guitar, the brushed drums. The song\u2019s melancholy suits Wells\u2019s mood.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAre you from Virginia?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMy family lives in Buffalo. That\u2019s in New York.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAh\u00a0\u2014 yes. Many years ago, I visited Niagara Falls, and took the train through Buffalo.\u201d Wells remembers riding along a lakefront of factories spewing waste water into the lake, past heaps of coal, clouds of orange and black smoke from blast furnaces. In front of dingy rowhouses, ragged hedges struggled through the smoky air. The landscape of laissez faire. \u201cI imagine the Depression has hit Buffalo severely.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes sir.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat work did you do there?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Kessel feels nervous, but he opens up a little. \u201cA lot of things. I used to be an electrician until I got blacklisted.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBlacklisted?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI was working on this job where the super told me to set the wiring wrong. I argued with him, but he just told me to do it his way. So I waited until he went away, then I sneaked into the construction shack and checked the blueprints. He didn\u2019t think I could read blueprints, but I could. I found out I was right and he was wrong. So I went back and did it right. The next day when he found out, he fired me. Then the so-and-so went and got me blacklisted.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Though he doesn\u2019t know how much credence to put in this story, Wells\u2019s sympathies are aroused. It\u2019s the kind of thing that must happen all the time. He recognizes in Kessel the immigrant stock that, when Wells visited the U.S. in 1906, made him skeptical about the future of America. He\u2019d theorized that these Italians and Slavs, coming from lands with no democratic tradition, unable to speak English, would degrade the already corrupt political process. They could not be made into good citizens; they would not work well when they could work poorly, and, given the way the economic deal was stacked against them, would seldom rise high enough to do better.<\/p>\n<p>But Kessel is clean, well-spoken despite his accent, and deferential. Wells realizes that this is one of the men who was topping trees along the river road.<\/p>\n<p>Meanwhile, Kessel detects a sadness in Wells\u2019s manner. He had not imagined that Wells might be sad, and he feels sympathy for him. It occurs to him, to his own surprise, that he might be able to make\u00a0<i>Wells<\/i>\u00a0feel better. \u201cSo\u00a0\u2014 what do you think of our country?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cGood things seem to be happening here. I\u2019m impressed with your President Roosevelt.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cRoosevelt\u2019s the best friend the working man ever had.\u201d Kessel pronounces the name \u201cRoozvelt.\u201d \u201cHe\u2019s a man that\u00a0\u2014 \u201d he struggles for the words, \u201c\u00a0\u2014 that\u2019s not for the past. He\u2019s for the future.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>It begins to dawn on Wells that Kessel is not an example of a class, or a sociological study, but a man like himself with an intellect, opinions, dreams. He thinks of his own youth, struggling to rise in a classbound society. He leans forward across the table. \u201cYou believe in the future? You think things can be different?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI think they have to be, Mr. Wells.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wells sits back. \u201cGood. So do I.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Kessel is stunned by this intimacy. It is more than he had hoped for, yet it leaves him with little to say. He wants to tell Wells about his dreams, and at the same time ask him a thousand questions. He wants to tell Wells everything he has seen in the world, and to hear Wells tell him the same. He casts about for something to say.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI always liked your writing. I like to read scientifiction.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cScientifiction?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Kessel shifts his long legs. \u201cYou know\u00a0\u2014 stories about the future. Monsters from outer space. The Martians. The Time Machine. You\u2019re the best scientifiction writer I ever read, next to Edgar Rice Burroughs.\u201d Kessel pronounces \u201cEdgar,\u201d \u201cEedgar.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cEdgar Rice Burroughs?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou\u00a0<i>like<\/i>\u00a0Burroughs?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Kessel hears the disapproval in Wells\u2019s voice. \u201cWell\u00a0\u2014 maybe not as much as, as\u00a0<i>The Time Machine,\u201d<\/i>\u00a0he stutters. \u201cBurroughs never wrote about monsters as good as your Morlocks.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Wells is nonplussed. \u201cMonsters.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes.\u201d Kessel feels something\u2019s going wrong, but he sees no way out. \u201cBut he does put more romance in his stories. That princess\u00a0\u2014 Dejah Thoris?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>All Wells can think of is Tarzan in his loincloth on the movie screen, and the moronic audience. After a lifetime of struggling, a hundred books written to change the world, in the service of men like this, is this all his work has come to? To be compared to the writer of pulp trash? To \u201cEedgar Rice Burroughs?\u201d He laughs aloud.<\/p>\n<p>At Wells\u2019s laugh, Kessel stops. He knows he\u2019s done something wrong, but he doesn\u2019t know what.<\/p>\n<p>Wells\u2019s weariness has dropped down onto his shoulders again like an iron cloak. \u201cYoung man\u00a0\u2014 go away,\u201d he says. \u201cYou don\u2019t know what you\u2019re saying. Go back to Buffalo.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Kessel\u2019s face burns. He stumbles from the table. The room is full of noise and laughter. He\u2019s run up against that wall again. He\u2019s just an ignorant Polack after all; it\u2019s his stupid accent, his clothes. He should have talked about something else\u00a0\u2014\u00a0<i>The Outline of History,<\/i>\u00a0politics. But what made him think he could talk like an equal with a man like Wells in the first place? Wells lives in a different world. The future is for men like him. Kessel feels himself the prey of fantasies. It\u2019s a bitter joke.<\/p>\n<p>He clutches the bar, orders another beer. His reflection in the mirror behind the ranked bottles is small and ugly.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhatsa matter, Jack?\u201d Turkel asks him. \u201cDidn\u2019t he want to dance neither?\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align:center;\">* * *<\/p>\n<p>And that\u2019s the story, essentially, that never happened.<\/p>\n<p>Not long after this, Kessel did go back to Buffalo. During the Second World War, he worked as a crane operator in the forty-inch rolling mill of Bethlehem Steel. He met his wife, Angela Giorlandino, during the war, and they married in June 1945. After the war, he quit the plant and became a carpenter. Their first child, a girl, died in infancy. Their second, a boy, was born in 1950. At that time, Kessel began building the house that, like so many things in his life, he was never to entirely complete. He worked hard, had two more children. There were good years and bad ones. He held a lot of jobs. The recession of 1958 just about flattened him; our family had to go on welfare. Things got better, but they never got good. After the 1950s, the economy of Buffalo, like that of all U.S. industrial cities caught in the transition to a post-industrial age, declined steadily. Kessel never did work for himself, and as an old man was no more prosperous than he had been as a young one.<\/p>\n<p>In the years preceding his death in 1946, Wells was to go on to further disillusionment. His efforts to create a sane world met with increasing frustration. He became bitter, enraged. Moura Budberg never agreed to marry him, and he lived alone. The war came, and it was, in some ways, even worse than he had predicted. He continued to propagandize for the socialist world state throughout, but with increasing irrelevance. The new leftists like Orwell considered him a dinosaur, fatally out of touch with the realities of world politics, a simpleminded technocrat with no understanding of the darkness of the human heart. Wells\u2019s last book,\u00a0<i>Mind at the End of its Tether,<\/i>\u00a0proposed that the human race faced an evolutionary crisis that would lead to its extinction unless humanity leapt to a higher state of consciousness; a leap about which Wells speculated with little hope or conviction.<\/p>\n<p>Sitting there in the Washington ballroom in 1934, Wells might well have understood that for all his thinking and preaching about the future, the future had irrevocably passed him by.<\/p>\n<p class=\"center\" style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>But the story isn\u2019t quite over yet. Back in the Washington ballroom, Wells sits humiliated, a little guilty for sending Kessel away so harshly. Kessel, his back to the dance floor, stares humiliated into his glass of beer. Gradually, both of them are pulled back from dark thoughts of their own inadequacies by the sound of Ellington\u2019s orchestra.<\/p>\n<p>Ellington stands in front of the big grand piano, behind him the band: three saxes, two clarinets, two trumpets, trombones, a drummer, guitarist, bass.<\/p>\n<p>[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=&#8221;3_4,1_4&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_column type=&#8221;3_4&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_text _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;]<\/p>\n<p>\u201cCreole Love Call,\u201d Ellington whispers into the microphone, then sits again at the piano. He waves his hand once, twice, and the clarinets slide into a low, wavering theme. The trumpet, muted, echoes it. The bass player and guitarist strum ahead at a deliberate pace, rhythmic, erotic, bluesy. Kessel and Wells, separate across the room, each unaware of the other, are alike drawn in. The trumpet growls eight bars of raucous solo. The clarinet follows, wailing. The music is full of pain and longing \u2014 but pain controlled, ordered, mastered. Longing unfulfilled, but not overpowering.<\/p>\n<p>As I write this, it plays on my stereo. If anyone has a right to bitterness at thwarted dreams, a black man in 1934 had that right. That such men could, in such conditions, make this music opens a world of possibilities.<\/p>\n<p>Through the music speaks a truth about art that Wells does not understand, but that I hope to: that art doesn\u2019t have to deliver a message in order to say something important. That art isn\u2019t always a means to an end but sometimes an end in itself. That art may not be able to change the world, but it can still change the moment.<\/p>\n<p>Through the music speaks a truth about life that Kessel, sixteen years before my birth, doesn\u2019t understand, but that I hope to: that life constrained is not life wasted. That despite unfulfilled dreams, peace is possible.<\/p>\n<p>Listening, Wells feels that peace steal over his soul. Kessel feels it, too.<\/p>\n<p>And so they wait, poised, calm, before they move on into their respective futures, into our own present. Into the world of limitation and loss. Into Buffalo.<\/p>\n<p><i>\u00a0\u2014 for my father<\/i><\/p>\n<p>[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=&#8221;1_4&#8243; _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;][et_pb_code _builder_version=&#8221;4.20.4&#8243; _module_preset=&#8221;default&#8221; global_colors_info=&#8221;{}&#8221;]<iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https:\/\/www.youtube-nocookie.com\/embed\/dI_RdSBXi9o?vq=hd1080&#038;modestbranding=1&#038;rel=0&#038;fs=0\" width=\"216\" height=\"216\" title=\"CREOLE LOVE CALL by Duke Ellington vocal Adelaide Hall 1927\" frameborder=\"0\"><\/iframe>[\/et_pb_code][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>It begins to dawn on Wells that Kessel is not an example of a class, or a sociological study, but a man like himself with an intellect, opinions, dreams. He thinks of his own youth, struggling to rise in a classbound society. He leans forward across the table. \u201cYou believe in the future?&#8221;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":9,"featured_media":5428,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"<!-- wp:paragraph {\"align\":\"center\"} -->\r\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center\" style=\"text-align: center;\">[wpavefrsz-resizer]<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<h3>SOULSTICE<\/h3>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Firstdeath was easy for me, like falling off a log. I was thirteen and thought I was immortal, as all teenagers do. I had thrown a ball too high, and it lodged on a shed roof. I climbed up on a neat stack of cut firewood to retrieve it. As the loose logs gave way, I fell about five feet\u2014not far\u2014but the sickening\u00a0<em>snap<\/em>\u00a0I heard was my own neck breaking.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I panicked. My limbs were paralyzed, and I couldn\u2019t breathe. I tried to scream for help\u2014nothing came out. All I could do was blink, move my tongue. It took only a moment to realize I was going to die\u2014no one was around to save me even if that were possible\u2014and once that thought took hold, I became calm, serene. I watched a squirrel run down a tree and gather up an acorn, oblivious to my plight; I smelled the fresh green summer grass that my lolling head had fallen into. I felt the sun\u2019s warmth on my face, heard the low rustling of leaves in the lazy wind. I realized that the universe would go right on as if I\u2019d never existed without missing a single step. I drank in all the life I could as everything began to ebb away.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>How shall I describe the feeling of\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. what? To dissolve? Seep away? Diffuse? Then the agelessness of soulstice set in, and those were my last seconds as Mike Conner, a dweller of Earth, bodyform human.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>This was of course long ago. I recalled it as one would recall a dream, while I walked beside Miiree on the forested path from Wryyl to Buula.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I rotated my right fore-eye to look at Miiree, who ambled just ahead of me. I never tired of watching her neck-ruffles undulated as she walked\u2014inviting yet demur, sophisticated, a sign of her upbringing.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cMiiree, what was your firstdeath like?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Miiree closed her aft-eyes for a moment, then pivoted them toward the ground. I\u2019d asked the question many times, with a similar reaction.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI\u2019ve told you about mine,\u201d I said. \u201cI don\u2019t see why\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cBy the Soulkeeper! Enough!\u201d she said. \u201cMy cleft-mother would not approve of such talk. We are not yet betrothed.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI see.\u201d At least I had finally dislodged a\u00a0<em>reason<\/em>\u00a0for her silence. \u201cI was not aware that betrothal was necessary. Others have told me the story of their firstlife and firstdeath without such a requirement.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cIn my clan,\u201d she said, \u201cthat is considered uncouth.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>This angered me, and I struggled to keep my neck-ruffles from yellowing. \u201cMust you always cast disrespect on my clan\u2019s customs? Just because you had the advantages of cleaving from the High-born\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she said, sounding genuine. She stopped on the trail and turned to look at me with her fore-eyes. \u201cI simply do not wish to discuss my firstdeath.\u201d She held out her right mid-limb and took my matching hand affectionately. I could never remain mad at Miiree for long.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">* * * *<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Buula was a far walk from Wryyl by the standards of my firstlife bodyform. In my secondlife bodyform, however, walking long distances was not difficult. Miiree and I had been traveling for some sixteen days, most of them pleasant enough. I primarily walk on my bottom-limbs, shifting to my mid-limbs when I grow tired. This is the norm for this bodyform. Miiree preferred her mid-limbs for primary ambulation, which was unusual and never failed to draw attention. We had been walking for half a day, usually in silence. It was enough for me to walk with Miiree in silence.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m hungry, Ko\u2019onar,\u201d Miiree said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I nodded. \u201cLet us go to the stream.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>The road to Buula is flat and runs parallel to a quick-running stream with clear water for drinking and, in this season, ample skkreel for food. In this dry season, it was also satisfactory to sleep outside under the beautiful red-barked brethmott trees. Many took this journey purely for recreation.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I wished I was one of them.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We veered off the path toward the stream. I led the way, carefully choosing my handsteps, ever wary of the possibility that the underbrush might hide a snike-vine.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Within a few minutes, we had come upon the clear waters of the stream. I ambled out into the shallows, the cold water sending stabs of pain through my joints, a reminder of my condition.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>The skkreel are easy to catch. One simply weaves together the longfingers at the ends of one\u2019s top-limbs and mid-limbs to form a four-cornered net, then dips this structure into the water. Within a few minutes, I had snared four lovely blue skkreel with fat, succulent midsegments. To my surprise, I also trapped an orange skkreel, which are a great delicacy.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I presented the orange skkreel to Miiree, who giggled with delight. \u201cSee!\u201d she said, \u201cit is an omen of good fortune, Ko\u2019onar.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I forced a smile. Her hopefulness usually cheered me, but my thoughts were dark. I suppose it is easier to be hopeful\u2014as she was\u2014when one does not face seconddeath personally. She offered to divide the orange skkreel with me, a sweet gesture, but I declined.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We siphoned the nutrients out of the skkreel then tossed their lifeless bodies back into the stream. I watched as the cool waters swept them away, to become food for some other creature. These cycles of life and death were more than merely symbolic to me.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We returned to the path. It would only take a few more days to reach Buula, where I might find salvation\u2014if not in body then perhaps in spirit.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<h3>THE CHOOSER<\/h3>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>The path to Buula is shaded by tall, angular brethmott trees. Their dark red, glossy bark is soft to the touch and makes an excellent midsegment support to lean against. We came upon a sexless-phase elder taking advantage of this natural reclining place. All of the elder\u2019s eyes were closed, its mid-limbs gnarled and atrophied. This elder was in its final days of secondlife, and I wondered why it was so far from the city.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Miiree nudged my right top-limb and whispered, \u201cDo not stare.\u00a0It is a Chooser.\u00a0Let it be.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I stopped ambling. I had never spoken with a Chooser before, and in my present state I felt an urge to share words with it.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Miiree\u2019s neck-ruffles turned sun-yellow and she grabbed my upper-limb and tugged hard. I refused to move.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cCome!\u201d she said in a loud whisper, trying to keep quiet so as not to wake the Chooser.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI have questions for it. We will wait until it awakes.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201c<em>If<\/em>\u00a0it awakes.\u201d she said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I looked at it closely. Its top-segment moved rhythmically, indicating that at least one set of its lungs still functioned. \u201cIt is alive.\"<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI will go without you.\u201d she threatened, pulling harder.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWhat sense would that make?\u201d I asked. \u201cYou have no need of Buula\u2019s healing temple.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThen I will go back home,\u201d she said, pointing her mid-limbs back down the road toward Wryyl, while continuing to tug at me with her top-limbs.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Suddenly, the elder\u2019s eyes opened and it made a liquidy sound, then expelled brown fluid from its top-segment\u2019s mouth. \u201cWho disturbs me?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI am Ko\u2019onar of clan Huuman, and this is Miiree of clan High-born,\u201d I said. \u201cWe journey to Buula.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThen resume your journey,\u201d it said in a raspy voice.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWe have need to rest,\u201d I said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cRest somewhere else.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cSee!\u201d Miiree said, pulling again on my limb.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I shook loose from her grasp. \u201cDo you need assistance, elder?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cOnly the assistance of seconddeath, young one.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I gazed upon its wretched body. \u201cYou desire seconddeath, then? You are a Chooser?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>It closed its eyes again. \u201cYes. My bodyform is finished in this life. I choose to go on to thirdlife.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>This was the doorway I needed for my burning question. \u201cTell me, elder, how do you know there\u00a0<em>is<\/em>\u00a0a thirdlife?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>It opened its fore-eyes and swiveled them to look directly at me. \u201cThere is a firstlife. There is a second. Why not a third?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I had heard this argument throughout my youth. \u201cThere are those who say firstlife is an illusion, merely a dream that cannot be proved.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>The Chooser produced a horrid, cackling laugh. \u201cYoung one, there are those who doubt the dirt beneath their hands exists! How could it be that different ones of us have different memories in full at the time of our cleaving?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWhat of the Blanks?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cA wretched exception,\u201d he countered, \u201cThey are malformed, ugly, soulless creatures, never really alive.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cBut they are few. I ask you, how could it be that the great majority among us have knowledge of different worlds and different firstlife bodyforms?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Another familiar argument. \u201cNone of those firstlife worlds have been located among the stars. They may yet be illusion\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThe heavens are vast, young one, and the ocean of time vaster still. Those worlds could be half a universe away or worn to ancient dust by time\u2019s tides\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. or lie in the distant future of possible worlds yet to come. The soul knows not of time at all.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI do not have understanding of such things,\u201d I said. \u201cBut I\u2019ll ask another way. Even if I allow that there is a firstlife and this is the second, what proof have we of a third?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThe first and second prove the possibility, do they not? There were those I knew in firstlife who believed in the soul\u2019s everlife even without knowledge of secondlife and its implied clockwork of souls. With the mechanism proved, faith should be easier for us, should it not?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cHave you always had faith this strong, old one?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>He paused. \u201cNo, in my youth, I doubted. Only recently have I turned to a firm belief in everlife.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cMust one face seconddeath to believe, old one? Doesn\u2019t that prove that everlife is simply the mind\u2019s fervent wish? A beautiful fantasy?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>His neck-ruffles turned a sickly yellow-green. \u201cAre you here to torment me, young one?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I bent down so our fore-eyes were level, and spoke softly. \u201cI do not ask these things to torment you, old one. I have the disease of slow stricture. These questions have great meaning for me, for the answers may determine my course.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>He nodded. \u201cThen you have a difficult path, young one, and I wish you well. When you get to Buula, speak with Giirum at the Chooser temple. He can answer your questions better than I.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Miiree let out a shrill fear-screech. I pivoted my aft-eyes to find the reason. To my horror, a large, ten-legged animal approached us. It had long, glass-clear claws on its hands, and its gaping top-segment mouth displayed fierce cutting-fangs and spiral tusks. It was covered with spiky, black fur and its huge fore-eyes stared at us.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cMiiree! Head for a tree!\u201d Given the arrangement of its limbs, I didn\u2019t think this creature would be a good climber. I did not think we could outrun it, and I had no weapons to fight such a beast.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>But Miiree seemed frozen in place, she merely trembled, her neck-ruffles bright green. I would have to fight it to save her. I reached down with both mid-limbs and picked up large stones and found a stout brethmott branch which I held firmly with my top-limbs. I fast-ambled toward the creature. I hoped what the elder said about thirdlife was true.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWait!\u201d the Chooser said. \u201cStand aside! The beast will not harm you; it has come to lead me to thirdlife.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We ambled cautiously to the side of the road. In case he was mistaken, I held up the stones and made ready to throw them. The monstrous thing passed us. Its fore-eyes fixed on the Chooser alone. Miiree and I sped down the road toward Buula, closing our aft-eyes to what must have been a grisly scene of carnage.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">* * * *<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We ambled for hours, our aft-eyes always looking for signs of motion behind us in case the beast returned. Soon the primary sun began to set and the dim secondary rose. We were tired and decided to recline for the night. We travelled off the road some distance, and I decided to keep watch while Miiree slept. We sat down near the edge of a clearing by two brethmott trees whose trunks leaned at comfortable angles. The glow-birds soon came out, and their flickering orange forms helped sooth us.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Miiree looked into my fore-eyes. \u201cKo\u2019onar, what you did was very brave.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI would do anything for you, Miiree,\u201d I said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>She sighed contentedly and her neck-ruffles undulated. \u201cKo\u2019onar, when you reach female-phase, I hope you find someone as brave as yourself to betroth.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I hugged her strongly. I still had trouble with the idea of changing genders in the way of this bodyform: starting out male, then female, then sexless. In my firstlife bodyform, I was male and to the best of my recalling would have remained so throughout my life. \u201cMiiree,\u201d I said, \u201cwas it difficult when your changing time came?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNo,\u201d she said. \u201cIt seemed natural to become female. I had been male long enough and had fathered my six cleftlings. But in my male-phase, I was never so brave as you, Ko\u2019onar.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I snuggled down beside her. \u201cIt seems very odd to me. In my firstlife bodyform we did not change genders as a matter of course. I have always been male, from firstlife until now. Were you male or female in firstlife? Or did your firstlife bodyform change as this one does?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>She did not answer, for she was asleep. The stressfulness of the encounter with the beast must have exhausted her.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I settled back onto my own tree.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I turned my head and let my aft-eyes watch the forest while pivoting my fore-eyes to the stars above. They were so numerous that shadows abounded. I didn\u2019t recall stars being this numerous or bright in my firstlife. I\u2019d heard speculations from some of the learned elders of Clan Huuman that Earth was on the periphery of a spiral galaxy, while Secondworld was nearer to the core. Whether it was the same galaxy or another was unknown. I had spent much time with the learned elders, drinking in as much knowledge as they would allow, but much of what they discussed was beyond my understanding.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I looked again at Miiree and wondered how I could be so lucky. The members of Clan High-born caught souls from a very advanced Otherworld whose bodyform was said to be pure light. I could easily imagine that Miiree could come from a firstlife like that, for she brought light to me each day. We had met for the first time in Wryyl\u2014she had recently transitioned to female-phase and had been traveling by road to find a male-phase mate. I saw her from the fields I worked\u2014she was dusty and thirsty. I fetched some water for her. We began to talk\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. and an almost magical romance had begun.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I listened intently to the sounds of the night, but I was no longer fearful that the beast would return. \u00a0I closed all my eyes and slept.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<h3>IN BUULA<\/h3>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>The next two days of travel were uneventful, even relaxing. Soon we could see Buula in the distance, its tall spires and grand domes dominating the horizon. I\u2019d never been to Buula before, but I recognized its buildings from drawings and the accounts of elders. The vision of it alone was enough to clear my mind of the horrors of the Chooser and the beast which came for him, and I even forgot about the disease that afflicted me. As we drew nearer, my hopes lifted to the heavens, carried by those majestic structures. Surely any city as wondrous as this would hold my salvation! My chance for a full secondlife.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We registered at the grand entry gate and purchased a city map which was etched into fine, soft animal skin. A helpful young male-phase drew circles on the map to indicate our present location and the locations of our lodging and the healing temple. I hailed an amblecart to take us to our lodging.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We climbed into the small amblecart, and our driver took his seat in front of us. He worked the controls, and it lurched up onto its six limbs and plodded down the clearstone street. Miiree and I held mid-limbs\u2014oh, how the touch of her made me feel alive! Now here we were, together in this glorious city of a hundred clans and a thousand sects.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We enjoyed looking at all the strangely-dressed citizens walking past. One female-phase was adorned in an elaborate, feathered costume that I recognized as a ceremonial gown from Clan Le\u2019emis. Most of the others were not familiar to me. I\u2019d lived my entire secondlife in Wryyl to this point\u2014a small, rural town composed almost exclusively of Clan Huuman citizens\u2014and I was embarrassed at how little I knew of the dozens of other clans that inhabited Secondworld. Each clan drew the souls of a particular firstworld, with newborn cleft-siblings springing forth with full memories of a particular individual from that world alone. The learned elders had painstakingly reconstructed so much knowledge about the many Huuman cultures that little time was left to learn of other clans and their respective firstworlds.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I felt Miiree\u2019s mid-limb tense, and I pivoted my fore-eyes toward her. Our amblecart was passing the Chooser\u2019s temple. I saw several citizens with various afflictions walking in and out of the temple. One had shriveled stumps for limbs, another\u2019s neck-ruffles were bloated and pestilent. Many were simply very old.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cDo not look upon the wretched Choosers,\u201d Miiree said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I pivoted my fore-eyes away. Most sects of Clan Huuman have strict moral codes against choosing seconddeath, and from her words and actions, I could tell Miiree\u2019s clan must share those restrictions.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I kept quiet on the matter, but privately I thought often of choosing seconddeath rather than suffer the long tortuous pains of slow stricture. Failing a cure in Buula, I would never take a mate. My symptoms were mild now, but within a season, I would become increasingly debilitated. In two or three seasons I'd be unable to work in the fields, an object of pity. I would remain in that unenviable state for five, perhaps even ten seasons, all the while in ever-growing, unending pain.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>If I could only be certain that a thirdlife awaited me ...<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Our driver, a rather old male-phase, opened his aft-eyes and said, \u201cFirst time in Buula?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I nodded.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThis is the temple section, you know.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI did not know that,\u201d I said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cOver here,\u201d he motioned to the right at a building with tall spires and golden doors, \u201cis the temple of the Wo\u2019oti. They believe there are exactly six lives allotted to each person.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThat is interesting,\u201d I said, \u201cbut why exactly six? Why not four or nine or a hundred?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>The driver laughed convulsively. \u201cIf you believe in four you should worship with the Wo\u2019olu. If seven, the Wo\u2019onee, and if a hundred\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. well, I\u2019m not sure where, but I could make inquiries if you like.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cYou mock me, driver?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNo! Great Soulkeeper, no! I tell the truth, surely. All of the sects of the Wo\u2019o believe there are a fixed number of lives. You can find one sect or another of the Wo\u2019o who believe in any particular number. Some\u2014the Wo\u2019ozi\u2014believe in two lives, that secondlife is the final one and is followed by everdeath. Others believe there is a fixed number, but we can never know what it is\u2014they are the Wo\u2019ora. Still others of the Wo\u2019o hold that each\u00a0<em>individual<\/em>\u00a0has a different number of lives allotted, depending on how favorably the Soulkeeper views their worldly deeds.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cDo not some believe in only a single life? Are they of the Wo\u2019o?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThey are a special case, believing that firstlife is but a dream. This is different in quality from the beliefs of the Wo\u2019o sects. The singlelife believers are in various sects of the Puu. At the other extreme are those who believe in an unlimited number of lives\u2014sects of the Maa.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cEverlife,\u201d I said dreamily. If only it were true.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cYes,\u201d the driver said. \u201cLook there!\u201d he motioned to the left, at a temple with rounded walls and tiny, glittering windows. \u201cThat is the temple of the Maafa, believers in a kind of everlife.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cA kind? Is not everlife a single concept\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNo! Oh good Soulkeeper, no! The Maafa believe that each soul has an unlimited number of past-lives and future-lives, but that the soul\u2019s memory only extends to the most recent past life. Thus, we\u00a0<em>think<\/em>\u00a0we are in secondlife, but we have actually had many other lives before, not just one. There are many other variations in belief of the Maa sects, all differing forms of everlife.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cVery interesting,\u201d I said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNone of this interests me.\u201d Miiree said, waving her upper-limbs in emphasis. \u201cAll this talk of unproved beliefs\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. all this speculation\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. what good is it?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I rubbed her lower-limb soothingly. \u201cWe are simply learning about the many cultures of Buula, my dearest.\u201d I swiveled my fore-eyes to look into the driver\u2019s aft-eyes. \u201cIt seems that all possible permutations of belief are held by one sect or another. All cannot be correct. What do\u00a0<em>you<\/em>\u00a0believe, driver?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>The driver laughed again. \u201cGood sir, I believe whatever my passengers do.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">* * * *<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We relaxed all that day and night in our lodginghouse. Although our trip was pleasant, eighteen days of walking does become a wearying routine. We dined at some of the simple eateries along the streets\u2014my funds had been scraped together from the generosity of relatives and clan members and we could not afford to sample the finer places Buula offered. Miiree and I shared a room to further conserve funds. This would have been scandalous in my firstlife\u2014an unbetrothed male and female sharing a room. However, in my secondlife bodyform there was no shame in it. Unadmitted sexual activity was impossible in this bodyform\u2014the male organs were used up with each sexual act. When all six organs were spent then the male-phase transitioned to female-phase. Similarly, the female organs were used up with each cleaving and after six cleavings the female would transition to sexless-phase. So, sexual activity was confined to procreation out of necessity, and no shame would come of sharing a room\u2014chastity could be easily proved. Of course, there were acts of passion that fell short of full sexual contact that Miiree and I partook of, but analogous acts in private were considered socially acceptable even in my firstlife.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>The next day it was time for my appointment at the Buula Hospital. Miiree insisted on accompanying me, even though I begged her to tour the wonders of the city. We arrived early at the massive, sparkling building. It rose to the heavens in tall towers buttressed by elliptical supports that gave the impression of immense stability. We entered and found our way to the temple\u2019s administrator.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I explained my situation, and the administrator scheduled a consultation with a healer from among those my clan\u2019s elders had previously contacted about my case.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWhich Healer will I see?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>She glanced at some papers in front of her. \u201cHealer Jiipu of Clan High-born.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cMay my betrothed come in with me to see the Healer?\u201d I asked. It was a small lie, since we were not yet betrothed.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Miiree spoke quickly, seeming nervous. \u201cNo, you see him alone, Ko\u2019onar. I trust you will tell me all later. I will wait here for you.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cAs you wish,\u201d I said. Many people feared the healing temples, places where many sick and diseased were treated, but I found it strange that Miiree would act this way.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We waited in silence for a time, then a male-phase assistant in bright blue cloak led me into Healer Jiipu\u2019s office.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Healer Jiipu was a sexless-phase elder. Deep lines accented its neck-ruffles, giving the healer the look of timeless wisdom. I felt certain that if anyone could help me, Dr. Jiipu could.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>It motioned for me to take a seat, and I quickly obeyed.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>It said, \u201cI have reviewed the records and test results from Wryyl. We will take some more tests to confirm the results, but unless some mistake was made in Wryyl it appears you do have slow stricture.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I nodded. \u201cGo on.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWe have developed many advanced healing arts in Buula, but I\u2019m afraid I can only offer palliative care for you.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I stared at Dr. Jiipu blankly. \u201cPallia\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThat is to say,\u201d he explained, \u201cI can offer you herbs to reduce the pain somewhat. I can also teach you exercises and meditations that may extend the use of your limbs for some extra time, perhaps one season. But nothing more. I am sorry.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>A cool shudder rippled from my lower-segment to my top-segment. I blinked all my eyes rapidly. How could it be? How could I travel all this way just to be dismissed as incurable within minutes of seeing the Healer? \u201cIsn\u2019t there anyone who knows how to help me. At another healing temple\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d Dr. Jiipu repeated abruptly. \u201cBuula\u2019s is the finest healing temple on Secondworld. I told all this to your elders in Wryyl, but they insisted on sending you anyway.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cSo, I am to become a cripple? A useless cripple?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Jiipu\u2019s face softened. \u201cThere, now. I know this is hard, but you must accept it. Look forward to your thirdlife\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201c<em>You<\/em>\u00a0believe in thirdlife?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWell, of course. I\u2019ve studied it at length\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cIt can be proved\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. with study?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Dr. Jiipu motioned with its top-limbs for me to settle down. \u201cNo, it cannot be proved for a certainty, but there is a great deal of evidence. We have identified a structure in this bodyform\u2019s brain that allows it to capture free identities\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cFree identities?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>It smiled. \u201cIn common terms, \u2018souls\u2019. You see, our world\u2019s bodyform acts something like a receiver. Each firstworld produces a certain kind of soul that can be received by a newborn at the time of cleaving. The soul has no location in space or time unless it is bound to a bodyform\u2014after that bodyform\u2019s death it spreads out, seeking another bodyform.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>My mind swirled from the possibilities. \u201cBut, why is it that no person born of Secondworld comes back after seconddeath as the same bodyform? All newborn cleftlings have memories from other worlds\u2014never our own!\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>He shook his head. \u201cWe do not understand all the details, perhaps we never will. Some hold that once experiences shape the soul it is no longer able to bind to the same bodyform\u2014it must seek another world with a different bodyform. The firstworlds we each came from seem only to catch souls that have never before been bound. The bodyform here on Secondworld seems to bind only to souls that have lived exactly one prior life. There may be other worlds such as ours that receive once-lived souls, we do not know.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cSo,\u201d I said, feeling bold, \u201cfor a thirdlife to exist, there would have to be some world in the universe whose beings have a bodyform that can receive souls which have lived exactly two prior lives.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>It smiled again, nodding vigorously. \u201cYes, yes, you have the idea. And we even have some evidence of such a world, but it is controversial\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNot all the learned ones who study these matters believe it, mind you. It is speculative.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cTell me, what is this evidence of a thirdlife?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI cannot tell you, you will have to experience it yourself.\u201d It wrote down something on a piece of paper. \u201cGo to this address and ask for the person whose name I\u2019ve written. He may help put your mind at ease.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">* * * *<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>After I finished taking some tests at the healing temple, Miiree and I began the walk back to the lodginghouse. Miiree said, \u201cDid the healer say what the chances were of a cure?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNo, he must look at the test results first,\u201d I lied.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cYou spoke to him a long time\u2014he must have said something else.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWe spoke of treatments and so on, nothing really.\u201d I did not wish to tell Miiree about the rest of our conversation. I knew that Miiree would not want me to meet the person the Healer had told me about, for it was none other than Giirum of the Chooser temple\u2014the same person that the old Chooser on the road had mentioned to me.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWhat kind of treatments must you have?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I began to fluster. \u201cElixers, therapies, exercises, and so on.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWill you have to stay in Buula long for these treatments?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I knew she would soon see through my lies. \u201cLet\u2019s not talk about it anymore. It is all guesswork until the test results are complete.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We ate lunch at a charming little place on the main street and talked of other things for a time. Afterward we continued back to our lodgingroom. I needed to find a way to get away from Miiree so I could visit the Chooser temple, hear about this evidence. She would not want me to go to such a place.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m very tired, Miiree. Let me take a nap. You go\u2014see the city sights.\u201d I closed the window shades and flopped down on the bed.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNo, Ko\u2019onar. I\u2019ll stay with you. Let\u2019s rest\u2014together.\u201d She playfully jumped down beside me, snuggling close.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cReally, Miiree, I must rest. Those tests, they took a lot out of me\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>She stroked my top-segment gently. \u201cYou poor, tired cleftling.\u201d She patted my mid-segment and heard the crackling of the note in my pocket. \u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Before I could move, she had removed it from my pocket with her right top-segment limb. I grabbed for it, but she curled her limb back behind her top-segment and began to read it with her aft-eyes.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Her neck-ruffles flailed violently and turned bright yellow. \u201cThe Chooser temple! Is\u00a0<em>this<\/em>\u00a0why you\u2019re trying to get rid of me?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cMiiree\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cYou\u2019re tired? You want\u00a0<em>me<\/em>\u00a0to see the sights?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cIt\u2019s not like that, Miiree, I simply\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cYou want to die? You want to become a Chooser? A horrible Chooser!\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNo! The man there, he has evidence of the third-life\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cEvidence! To lure citizens to choose death!\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201c<em>Learned<\/em>\u00a0evidence, Miiree, born of study. Evidence that there\u00a0<em>is<\/em>\u00a0another life after this one\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI can\u2019t stand it!\u201d She jumped out of the bed and began to pace. \u201cYou! You and every other being on Secondworld! You\u2019re so concerned about past lives and future lives you\u2019re not living\u00a0<em>this<\/em>\u00a0life!\u201d She ran to the window, drew open the shades. \u201cLook out there\u2014what do you see?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cA vast city of many cultures,\u201d I said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cYes, many cultures, but not\u00a0<em>our<\/em>\u00a0culture. Secondworld has no culture of its\u00a0<em>own<\/em>. Everyone comes into this world believing they\u2019re from somewhere else. And while they\u2019re here, they only think about becoming someone else again in the future. They never become\u00a0<em>citizens<\/em>\u00a0of Secondworld, just\u00a0<em>visitors<\/em>. They never look around at the beauty of\u00a0<em>this<\/em>\u00a0world, they only talk and discuss and endlessly study the\u00a0<em>last<\/em>\u00a0world they were on, or speculate about the\u00a0<em>next<\/em>! It\u2019s driving me mad!\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I stood up. \u201cMiiree, I have to go. I have to find out.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cGo then! But I will not be here when you get back.\u201d She ambled out of the room before I could stop her.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I ambled after her, but by the time I got to the street she was lost in the thick crowd. I shouted her name; people stared at me like I was a fool.\u00a0<em>She\u2019ll come back,<\/em>\u00a0I thought. But then I thought again. Maybe it would be better if she didn\u2019t come back. I could never have her, there was no cure for me.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I headed for the Chooser temple.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>THIRDWORLD<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI am Ko\u2019onar of Clan Huuman. You are Giirum?\u201d I asked the male-phase who sat in the templemaster\u2019s office.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cYes. Healer Jiipu told me you would come,\u201d he said. He was dressed in green and blue ceremonial robes and, although very old, he was still a male. He must have taken a vow of chastity, I thought.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThen you know my situation,\u201d I said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cYes. You seek assurance that there is a thirdlife. I can provide such assurance.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThe Healer said your evidence is controversial.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cIt is not to me,\u201d he said. \u201cThe learned elders have a higher standard of proof than I require, for I have faith in the Soulkeeper.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI am not a learned elder who requires absolute proof,\u201d I said, \u201cbut neither am I so full of faith. Let me judge the evidence by my own standards, then.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>He nodded and stood. \u201cAs you wish.\u201d He motioned for me to walk through a door.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I entered a small, dark passageway that led to a staircase. We took the stairs down what must have been several levels and came to a sealed door that bore golden emblems I did not recognize. Giirum took a key from under his robe and unlocked the door. We entered.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>There, in the middle of a small, circular room was a silver vat, half as tall as I was. Small puffs of vapor rose from it. Several rods were suspended from the ceiling above the vat.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWe have devised a way for you to see into your soul\u2019s destiny,\u201d he said. \u201cThis vat contains rare substances that some elders say can be used to see into the repository of souls.\u201d He approached the vat and stood right next to it. He motioned me to follow and I did.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I looked into the liquid, which swirled slowly around, forming a vortex. The liquid itself was composed of hundreds of different colors, like oil on a lake in the sunshine, but more intensely bright.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cSee, now,\u201d he said, \u201cthe liquid swirls slowly\u2014a single vortex will attune to worlds that accept souls which have lived a single life.\u201d He reached up and pulled on one of the rods above the vat. The swirling became faster\u2014and now two vortices appeared in the liquid. \u201cAnd now, it is tuned for worlds which accept souls that have lived in bodily form exactly twice\u2014worlds which may hold hope for a thirdlife for you.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI do not understand what this proves,\u201d I said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>His smiling face was illuminated by the many colors reflecting off the liquid surface. \u201cYou must become one with the liquid, and clear your mind of all other thoughts. Allow the pattern of your soul to mix with the liquid, and you may see a vision of your thirdlife.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>It sounded absurd, but I was there, and I had to try. \u201cHow do I do it?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>He rolled up the sleeves of my top- and mid-limbs, and had me lean over the vat. He showed me four marked places around the top rim of the vat. They were equidistant from each other around its circumference. On his direction, I placed one limb at each mark and slowly slid them into the liquid. It was cool and seemed so slippery as to almost be a vapor.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNow gaze into the liquid, and clear your mind of all thought. Remain as long as you wish.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I swiveled my aft-eyes and saw him exit the room, closing the door behind.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I shut my aft-eyes and stared into the liquid with my fore-eyes. I tried to stop thinking about Miiree and the lifetime I would never spend with her. I tried to clear my mind of the Chooser on the road and the beast that came for him, of my own firstdeath that cut my life on Earth short, of the disease that had afflicted me. The colors swirled and danced, but I saw no vision. I closed my eyes.\u00a0<em>This is useless,<\/em>\u00a0I thought.\u00a0<em>These religious fanatics are all crazy. What am I doing here, locked in a room below a group of people who seek only death?<\/em><\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I took a deep breath, let it out. I opened my fore-eyes again. I could not clear my mind this way\u2014I had to think of something\u2014no, no\u2014I had to\u00a0<em>feel<\/em>\u00a0something\u00a0<em>without<\/em>\u00a0thinking. But what? And then it came to me\u2014the feeling I had felt only one time before. The feeling of firstdeath\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. of soulstice. I tried to feel as I did then, my soul diffusing, seeping, slipping away, spreading out over space and time, past and future, encompassing galaxies long dead and yet to live, seeking, searching, yearning for\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. for\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>The colors in the vat danced and swirled around two vortices and then formed an image, and I was inside the image. I was swimming, swirling, turning fast loops and blowing bubbles. I rose up, up, more and more quickly until\u2014<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Out of the water I flew, airborne with blue water below and yellow sky above, thick clouds of frothy gray and pink and then\u2014<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>A terrific impact as I fell back down into the water, sending towers of surf far into the air, and the blueness sparkling all around me, and ahead I saw them all\u2014<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>My family, my siblings, sleek and quick, circling around me, squealing out in a fantastically complex singsong-whistling language that I could understand perfectly\u2014<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cCome to us, come to us,\u201d they said. \u201cSwim here joyfully with us.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I swam toward them as rapidly as I could, with great swishes of my powerful tail, nearer and nearer, almost there\u2014<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>They collapsed, dissolved, and were again a swatch of swirling colors in the vat which I stood over in the lower level of the Chooser temple.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>THE PATH<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I sat on the side of the road, under a beautiful brethmott tree, awaiting the beast that would lead me to thirdlife.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Giirum had not wanted me to make my decision so quickly, but I pressed him. I did not want my new body on the water world to be taken by another soul. He assured me that time did not matter at all, my thirdbody would be there for me. But I saw no reason to wait. Miiree I could never have. My current bodyform was still serviceable, but soon it would not be. I desired neither the palliative care of the Healer or the pity of my clan and cleft-siblings.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I thought only of the waterworld, of the freedom it would afford me, of the joy I felt while entranced by the vat.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I closed all my eyes, and waited for the beast.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Half a day passed, then more. I continued to sit quietly, waiting, meditating on my new life soon to begin.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I heard sounds from down the road.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I smiled, took a deep breath, relaxed. The beast was well-trained; it would be quick. Giirum had assured me of that.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>The steps approached.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cKo\u2019onar!\u201d Miiree said. \u201cKo\u2019onar, what are you doing? Come with me now, away from here, before the beast arrives!\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I opened my fore-eyes. \u201cWhy are you here, Miiree?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>She knelt down where I sat, put four arms around me and squeezed. \u201cI love you, Ko\u2019onar, don\u2019t you know that?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI can never be betrothed to you, Miiree. I lied to you\u2014I am incurable. This life has no hold on me now.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNo!\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cGo now, the beast will be here soon. Go back to Wryyl, find another mate.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI only want you, and I don\u2019t care if you\u2019re incurable.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cYour cleft-mother would never allow it. And even so, why would a High-born like you want a sickly\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cStop it! Ko\u2019onar, it is I who have lied to you.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I shook my top-segment. \u201cI don\u2019t understand.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>She released me, stood, and looked to the ground. \u201cI have lied to you, ever since we met. No one will care if I am betrothed to you, for I am an outcast among the High-born.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWhat? Why\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cI was afraid you would know when I refused to go with you to the Healer. He was from clan High-born, I thought he might reveal me.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cBut what could you have done, sweet Miiree?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cIt isn\u2019t what I have done, but what I have not done. My cleft-mother tried to hide it after my birth, and she did so for many years, but\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I stood, took her limbs in mine. \u201cWhat is it? What could be so bad?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cKo\u2019onar\u2014it\u2019s about my firstlife.\u201d She began to tremble.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cGo on.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWhen I was cleaved from my mother\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. I\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. I was a Blank.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I could not believe it; my limbs dropped away from her. \u201cYou? A Blank? But you are not disfigured or ugly\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cBlank, Ko\u2019onar. Without any prior life knowledge at all\u2014without a soul. That is my ugliness. When I was very small it was easy to hide, for even those who had a firstlife must learn to talk as these bodyforms do. But soon my cleft-mother realized I was a Blank. She taught me elaborate stories to hide my affliction. I was able to conceal it throughout my male-phase years, but the elders finally discovered my secret. They banished me from my home town\u2014a disgrace to all of clan High-born. One who could not catch a soul. A failure from birth.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>I looked at her in pity. A Blank. It all made sense now. It all made sense\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. yes, it did all make sense. I began to laugh.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>She put her hands to her neck-ruffles and looked away from me in shame. \u201cGo ahead, mock me.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNo, no!\u201d I put my limbs around her and squeezed hard. \u201cYou\u00a0<em>do<\/em>\u00a0have a soul, don\u2019t you see?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cBut, I am a misfit, a Blank\u2014\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cNo! You are a true inhabitant of Secondworld! You understand it better than any of us. This is the only world you have known, so you appreciate its splendor for what it is.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>She looked back at me. \u201cDo you really think so?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cYes.\u201d I snuggled against her mid-segment affectionately. \u201cAnd now I must choose. And I choose\u2014to live. My secondlife\u2014and your firstlife.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>She smiled, and her neck-ruffles turned blue again. \u201cBut what of your disease? Your suffering?\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cThe treatments will help, and there will be you to bring joy into my days. Whatever time I have here, I will spend with you, Miiree.\u201d<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>We held each other a long time.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>Then I remembered the beast.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>\u201cWe\u2019d better go,\u201d I said.<\/p>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->\r\n\r\n<!-- wp:paragraph -->\r\n<p>And we began the long walk back to Wryyl, limb in limb. On the journey I thought for a moment of my thirdlife\u2014swirling in the blue waters. That would always be there for me; I knew that. Now I would think only of the time I would spend in\u00a0<em>this<\/em>\u00a0life, with my remarkable Miiree, who would teach me to see this world with fresh, new eyes\u2014both fore and aft.<\/p>\r\n<p>\u00a0<\/p>\r\n<h2 style=\"text-align: center;\">THE END<\/h2>\r\n<h5 style=\"text-align: right;\">Copyright (C) 2004 Vorpal Publishing Group. All rights reserved.<\/h5>\r\n<!-- \/wp:paragraph -->","_et_gb_content_width":"","mc4wp_mailchimp_campaign":[],"footnotes":""},"categories":[15],"tags":[54],"class_list":["post-5370","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-science-fiction","tag-featured","et-has-post-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v27.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Buffalo - SciFiwise - Science Fiction Short Stories<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/scifiwise.com\/buffalo\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Buffalo - SciFiwise - Science Fiction Short Stories\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"It begins to dawn on Wells that Kessel is not an example of a class, or a sociological study, but a man like himself with an intellect, opinions, dreams. 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