Part 43 (1/2)

A disembodied voice-one of the Guardians of the Way-said to him, ”Are you sure you want to do this?”

”I am,” Azzie said.

And disappeared...

Azzie reappeared in a small waiting room. There was a long padded sofa against one wall, two chairs on the other. A big lamp cast a mellow glow over a stack of magazines on a nearby end table. Before the third wall was a receptionist, clad in a toga, sitting in front of what looked like an office intercom. The receptionist looked for all the world like a woman, except that she had an alligator's head on her shoulders. The sight of her convinced Azzie that he was indeed in the place where realism held no sway and where symbology ruled the world.

”What can we do for you, sir?” the receptionist asked.

”I'm here to inspect the symbolic machinery,” Azzie said.

”Go right in. You were expected.”

Azzie pa.s.sed through a door into a s.p.a.ce that had the dismaying qualities of being both enclosed and endless, a universal plenum filled with innumerable contents. It seemed to be a factory, or a derisive three-dimensional comment on one, for its volume was interminable to the eye. This place beyond s.p.a.ce and time seemed entirely filled with machinery, with an endless variety of cogwheels and spindles, with belts to drive them, all of them apparently suspended in midair and working away with a zinging, hissing, clanging sound.

The machines were piled up endlessly in all directions, separated by narrow catwalks. On one of these catwalks was a tall, gaunt man, wearing gray coveralls with a thin white stripe and a peaked cap of a similar material. He moved along with his oilcan, making sure the machinery ran with a minimum of friction.

”What's going on here?” Azzie asked.

”Here all of Earth's time is compressed into a single narrow strip and pa.s.sed through rollers. And it comes out here, a broad gossamer-thin tapestry.”

The old man showed him the broad rollers where the timelines were woven into a tapestry that represented and in some sense was the history of the cosmos up to that moment. Azzie examined it and found a botched place.

”What about this?” he asked.

”Ah, that's where Venice was destroyed,” the old man said. ”The city was one of the princ.i.p.al threads in the fabric of civilization, you see, and so there'll be a bit of a discontinuity in the cultural aspect of the s.p.a.ce-time fabric until another city takes up its place. Or perhaps the whole tapes-try will lose l.u.s.ter for loss of one of its finest parts. It's difficult to predict the effect of a major fallout like this.”

”Seems a pity to leave it at that,” Azzie said. He examined the threads that made up the warp. ”Look, if we go back and pull out this one strand, Venice would be all right.”

He had found the strand where he had begun his golden candlestick game with the pilgrims, the point at which Venice's doom had been sealed. It was necessary to withdraw that action from the skein of causality in order to undo the cosmic damage.

”My dear young demon, you know very well we can't mess with the skeins of time. I agree it would be easy. But I would not recommend it.”

”What if I did it anyhow?”

”Try it and find out.”

”Are you going to stop me?”

The old man shook his head. ”My duty is not to stop anything. My task is solely to watch the spinning of the tapestry.”

Azzie reached out and with a firm motion pulled out the thread that marked his meeting with the pilgrims. The thread lit with sudden fire as it tore loose. He could see the result immediately on the slow-moving web of tapestry, which repaired itself at once. Venice was restored. It was as easy as that.

Azzie turned to go, but he stopped when an icy finger tapped him on the back. He looked around; the watchman was gone.

An ominous voice said, ”Azzie Elbub?”

”Yes. Who's there?”