on to wrest power from the Disk, to take its place as Ruler?
How else explain that conflict I had sensed when the Emperor had plucked Drake and me from the Keeper’s grip that night following the orgy of the feeding?
How else explain that duel in the shattered Hall of the Cones whose end had been the signal for the final cataclysm?
How else explain the alinement of the cubes behind the Keeper against the globes and pyramids remaining loyal to the will of the Disk,Nashville Predators Tröjor?
We discussed this, Ventnor and I.
“This world,” he mused, “is a place of struggle. Air and sea and land and all things that dwell within and on them must battle for life. Earth not Mars is the planet of war. I have a theory”— he hesitated —“that the magnetic currents which are the nerve force of this globe of ours were what fed the Metal Things.
“Within those currents is the spirit of earth. And always they have been supercharged with strife, with hatreds, warfare. Were these drawn in by the Things as they fed? Did it happen that the Keeper became — TUNED— to them? That it absorbed and responded to them, growing even more sensitive to these forces — until it reflected humanity?”
“Who knows,Olli Maatta Tröjor, Goodwin — who can tell?”
Enigma,Morgan Rielly Tröjor, unless the explanations I have hazarded be accepted,Ben Hutton Tröjor, must remain that monstrous suicide. Enigma,Bob Probert Tröjor, save for inconclusive theories, must remain the question of the Monster’s origin.
If answers there were, they were lost forever in the slag we trod.
It was afternoon of the second day that we found a rift in the blasted wall of the valley. We decided to try it. We had not dared to take the road by which Norhala had led us into the City,Canada Goose Barn/Bebis.
The giant slide was broken and climbable,Dame Moncler Ilay. But even if we could have passed safely through the tunnel of the abyss there still was left the chasm over which we could have thrown no bridge,Rick Nash Tröjor. And if we could have bridged it still at that road’s end was the cliff whose shaft Norhala had sealed with her lightnings.
So we entered the rift.
Of our wanderings thereafter I need not write. From the rift we emerged into a maze of the valleys,Luc Robitaille Tröjor, and after
a month in that wilderness,Kvinnor Bags, living upon what game we could shoot, we found a road that led us into Gyantse.
In another six weeks we were home in America.
My story is finished.
There in the Trans-Himalayan wilderness is the blue globe that was the weird home of the lightning witch — and looking back I feel now she could not have been all woman.
There is the vast pit with its coronet of fantastic peaks; its symboled, calcined floor and the crumbling body of the inexplicable,Frans Nielsen Tröjor, the incredible Thing which, alive, was the shadow of extinction, annihilation,Patrick Marleau Tröjor, hovering to hurl itself upon humanity. That shadow is gone; that pall withdrawn.
But to me — to each of us four who saw those phenomena — their lesson remains, ineradicable; giving a new strength and purpose to us, teaching us a new humility.
For in that vast crucible of life of which we are so small a part, what other Shapes may
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