is the finish, Stephen,” he said. “You’ve killed part of yourself. Oh—you’ll go on living, but not all of you. You’d best bury that corpse, Stephen. It’s the corpse of your soul.”
“I can’t,” Crane said. “The wind will blow the ashes away.”
“Then burn it—”
It seemed that they helped him thrust the dead dog into his knapsack. They helped him take off his clothes and pack them underneath. They cupped their hands around the matches until the cloth caught fire, and blew on the weak flame until it sputtered and burned limply. Crane crouched by the fire and nursed it until nothing was left but more gray ash. Then he turned and once again began crawling down the ocean bed. He was naked now. There was nothing left of what-had-been but his flickering little life.
He was too heavy with sorrow to notice the furious rain that slammed and buffeted him, or the searing pains that were shooting through his blackened leg and up his hip. He crawled. Elbows, knee, elbows, knee—woodenly, mechanically, apathetic to everything. To the latticed skies, the dreary ashen plains, and even the dull glint of water that lay far ahead.
He knew it was the sea—what was left of the old, or a new one in the making. But it would be an empty, lifeless sea that some day would lap against a dry lifeless shore. This would be a planet of rock and stone, of metal and snow and ice and water, but that would be all. No more life. He, alone, was useless. He was Adam, but there was no Eve.
Evelyn waved gaily to him from the shore. She was standing alongside the white cottage with the wind snapping her dress to show the clean, slender lines of her figure. And when he came a little closer, she ran out to him and helped him. She said nothing—only placed her hands under his shoulders and helped him lift the weight of his heavy pain-ridden body. And so at last he reached the sea.
It was real. He understood that. For even after Evelyn and the cottage had vanished, he felt the cool waters bathe his face. Quietly—calmly—
Here’s the sea, Crane thought, and here am I. Adam and no Eve. It’s hopeless.
He rolled a little farther into the waters. They laved his torn body. Quietly—calmly—
He lay with face to the sky, peering at the high menacing heavens, and the bitterness within him welled up.
“It’s not right!” he cried. “It’s not right that all this should pass away. Life is too beautiful to perish at the mad act of one mad creature—”
Quietly the waters laved him. Quietly—calmly—
The sea rocked him gently, and even the agony that was reaching up toward his heart was no more than a gloved hand. Suddenly the skies split apart—for the first time in all those months—and Crane stared up at the stars.
Then he knew. This was not the end of life. There could never be an end to life. Within his body, within the rotting tissues that were rocking gently in the sea was the source of ten million-million lives. Cells—tissues—bacteria—endamcoeba—countless infinities of life that would take new root in the waters and live long after he was gone.
They would live on his rotting remains. They would feed on each other. They would adapt themselves to the new environment and feed on the minerals and sediments washed into this new sea. They would grow, burgeon, evolve. Life would reach out to the lands once more. It would begin again the same old re-repeated cycle that had begun perhaps with the rotting corpse of some last survivor of interstellar travel. It would happen over and over in the future ages.
And then he knew what had brought him back to the sea. There need be no Adam—no Eve. Only the sea, the great mother of life was needed. The sea had called him back to her depths that presently life might emerge once more, and he was content.
Quietly the waters rocked him. Quietly—calmly—the mother of life rocked the last-born of the old cycle who would become the first-born of the new. And with glazing eyes, Stephen Crane smiled up at the stars, stars that were sprinkled evenly across the sky. Stars that had not yet formed into the familiar constellations, nor would they for another hundred million centuries.
FOXY LADY, by Lawrence Watt-Evans
Al stared at the board, trying to concentrate, trying not to sweat.
“This one’s for the grand prize, folks!” the MC announced, in those infuriatingly jovial tones he did so well. He gestured in the general direction of the display. “Are you ready, Al?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Al replied, trying to sound as if he were having fun, rather than struggling to hold down his lunch.
Watching at home, he thought, you never saw how nervous the contestants were, or how small the studio was, or how that stupid board was knocked together out of plywood and cheap laminate.
“Then you have thirty seconds—go!”
The central two screens lit up.
People. They were faces, two men.
“Presidents,” he said, recognizing Ronald Reagan and John Kennedy. Kennedy disappeared, replaced by Marilyn Monroe. “Movie stars.” Reagan vanished, replaced by Madonna. “Blondes.”
“Try again,” the MC called.
“Sex symbols, actresses…”
Monroe disappeared, and a new face he couldn’t identify replaced her, a vaguely familiar male face with long hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Singers,” he guessed.
Madonna was replaced by Kennedy. If he could figure this one out he’d be all the way around the circle and would win, but he couldn’t figure out who the guy in the glasses was. A singer? Connected with Kennedy?
“Ten seconds,” the MC said.
He’d seen the face, he knew he had. The hairstyle gave him a clue.
“The sixties,” he guessed.
“Try again.”
He tried to think. What was Kennedy noted for? “Uh…assassination victims?”
A bell rang and the studio audience burst into cheers.
“Congratulations, Al Roebuck!” the MC announced, coming forward to clap him on the back. “You’ve won the grand prize! Bill, tell Al what he’s won!”
John Lennon, Al realized, that’s who it was. He turned, a bit dazed.
“From the New Gene Corporation,” the announcer said, as the pale blue curtains parted, “She’s friendly, intelligent, and beautiful, and she’s all yours! She’s their top-of-the-line model, carefully cloned and hand-raised from a kit, every gene selected and tailored to make her the perfect household companion and servant. She’s the New Gene Corporation’s Mark Five Vixen, Salome!”
Al stared.
“Yes, made from the germ plasm of the common fox, the Mark Five Vixen is fluent in both English and Spanish, and trained to perform a wide variety of common household chores, from mopping floors to massaging backs. With a life expectancy of seventy-five years, she should last you a lifetime. She has a retail value of six hundred and fifty thousand dollars, but, Al Roebuck, she’s all yours, for playing Missing Links!”
“Wow,” Al said, still staring.
She was beautiful.
She was standing on a melon-colored rotating pedestal, one knee forward, one hand on her hip and the other hanging by her thigh; her pointed muzzle was raised proudly, her tail swishing gently behind her, the only part of her not held motionless. She wore only a simple red tunic that covered her from shoulder to mid-thigh, accentuating, rather than hiding, the swelling curves of bust and hip, and a black leather collar around her neck. Fine orange fur covered her legs, arms, and upper face; her hands, feet, and muzzle were white, toes and fingertips black. A white ruff and black forelock resembled a human woman’s head hair.
Al hadn’t expected anything