World's End

Page 3

Gundhalinu turned away from the high window at last, from the view of Foursgate shrouded in mist, the rococo pattern of rain tracks on the glass. He had been looking at the Pantheon; it was just visible from where

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his office lay, its multiple domes of azure and gold ceramic half obscured by newer, more graceful structures.

He took an antique watch from his pocket, glancing absently at the time . . . looking at the watch itself, turning it over andover for the feel of its comfortable familiarity in his hand. He sighed.

The hour was getting late--but not late enough that he could postpone this final duty for another day.

Besides, he had no more days left. The ceremonies at the Pantheon were due to begin today at sunset, and they would drag on through half of tomorrow. Crowds were gathering there already

. . . gathering from all over

Number Four to see him. The thought made him grimace.

These were only the first of too many ceremonies that he would have to wade through, like streams, on the way to where he wanted to go.

He had put off the meaningless honors, the public displays of adoration, for as long as possible, using his wound and his weakness as excuses. But he had spent JOAN D. VINGE

the hard-won privacy of his convalescence working

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obsessively, trying to put what was left of his personal life in order before he became public property forever.

He knew what he would see if he faced himself in a mirror; he had not gone near one since his release from the hospital. But he had endured far worse things than his own reflection too recently to let it bother him, or stop him. There had been no time for weakness, or pain, or doubt . . . there never would be again.

He moved back to his desk. His hand reached for the speaker plate at last; hesitated, as more seconds slipped by. The judgment he was about to pass was only a formality, a decision made weeks ago concerning an act that should have been done years ago. And yet... he needed more time.

He touched the speaker-plate. "Ossidge. I'm still reviewing the evidence. I'll let you know when I'm ready."

"Right, Inspector." There was no discernible emotion in the disembodied voice, even though his sergeant had been waiting for more than an hour down in the detention wing. Ossidge was a phlegmatic lump, stolid and unquestioning. Gundhalinu tried to imagine what Ossidge would make of World's End, or what it would make of him. The irresistible force and the immovable

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