Thorns

TWENTY: AFTER US, THE SAVAGE GOD

It was a post-apocalyptic era. The doom of which the prophets had chanted had never come; or, if it had, the world had lived through it into a quieter time. They had predicted the worst, a Fimbulwinter of universal discontent. An ax-age, a sword-age, a wind-age, a wolf-age, ere the world totters. But shields were not cloven, and darkness did not fall. What had happened, and why? Duncan Chalk, one of the chief beneficiaries of the new era, often pondered that pleasant question.

The swords now were plowshares.

Hunger was abolished.

Population was controlled.

Man no longer fouled his own environment in every daily act. The skies were relatively pure. The rivers ran clear. There were lakes of blue crystal, parks of bright green. Of course, the millennium had not quite arrived; there was crime, disease, hunger, even now. But that was in the dark places. For most, it was an age of ease. Those who looked for crisis looked for it in that.

Communication in the world was instantaneous. Transportation was measurably slower than that, but still fast. The planets of the local solar system, unpeopled, were being plundered of their metals, their minerals, even their gaseous blankets. The nearer stars had been reached. Earth prospered. The ideologies of poverty wither embarrassingly in a time of plenty.

Yet plenty is relative. Needs and envies remained—the materialistic urges. The deeper, darker hungers were not always gratified by thick paychecks alone, either. An era determines for itself its characteristic forms of entertainment. Chalk had been one of the shapers of those forms.

His empire of amusement stretched halfway across the system. It brought him wealth, power, the satisfaction of the ego, and—to the measure he desired it—fame. It led him indirectly to the fulfillment of his inner needs, which were generated from his own physical and psychological makeup, and which would have pressed upon him had he lived in any other era. Now, conveniently, he was in a position to take the steps that would bring him to the position he required.

He needed to be fed frequently. And his food was only partly flesh and vegetables.

From the center of his empire Chalk followed the doings of his star-crossed pair of lovers. They were en route to Antarctica now. He received regular reports from Aoudad and Nikolaides, those hoverers over the bed of love. But by this time Chalk no longer needed his flunkies to tell him what was happening. He had achieved contact and drew his own species of information from the two splintered ones he had brought together.

Just now what he drew from them was a bland wash of happiness. Useless, for Chalk. But he played his game patiently. Mutual sympathy had drawn them close, but was sympathy the proper foundation for undying love? Chalk thought not. He was willing to gamble a fortune to prove his point. They would change toward each other. And Chalk would turn his profit, so to speak.

Aoudad was on the circuit now. “We’re just arriving, sir. They’re being taken to the hotel.”

“Good. Good. See that they’re given every comfort.”

“Naturally.”

“But don’t spend much time near them. They want to be with each other, not chivied about by chaperones. Do you follow me, Aoudad?”

“They’ll have the whole Pole to themselves.”

Chalk smiled. Their tour would be a lovers’ dream. It was an elegant era, and those with the right key could open door after door of pleasures. Burris and Lona would enjoy themselves.

The apocalypse could come later.