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been like for that surviving
speck of mind.
    Then came
darkness, incredible darkness, in which the black soul appeared luminous by
comparison.
    “Sun, moon,
and stars have fallen from the sky.”
    Reting saw a
fleck of light extending into a strand of pearls. From this appeared a lavish
feast, laid out upon a broad table. The black soul threw itself onto the table,
obviously starving; it fell upon the platters of steaming meat, the goblets of
nectar, the heaped fruits.
    But the food
passed through the shadow’s hands.
    Reting’s
fists clenched.
    Feed, him , he thought. Let him eat!
    The table
turned over. Its underside was stark silver metal. The shadow floated through
and lay upon it like the silhouette of a sick man. It began to emanate a fine
mist of visions. Blood-red, pus-yellow, bile-black: evil faces formed above the
silver bed, slavering over the helpless mind. The soul writhed away from them
but could not escape, for they were the product of its own dissolution.
    “Help him!”
he screamed, rising to his feet. He slammed his hands against the console of
the Bardo device.
    “I am
sorry,” said the gentle bodhi voice. “He has no form, no substance. He is
insensible. There is nothing to help.”
    Reting saw
the black shadow throw itself from the silver bed, and then there was nothing
but darkness on the screen again.
    He looked at
the body on the moondisk. So cold.
    And back at
the screen.
    “It
changes,” said the voice.
    “What
changes? What do you mean?”
    “The soul
returns. Matter claims it. The mind has looked into the world.”
    For a moment
he saw the black shape, surrounded by a nimbus of fire. Hands outstretched,
each finger lit separately, it seemed to be striving to crawl from the screen.
It clawed toward him, faceless and implacable. He saw nothing in it that he
recognized.
    “The
quickening begins,” said the device. “We are losing our tracer.”
    “But where
is he? Can’t you contain him? Can’t you even track him?”
    The corona
of fire shot through the screen, as if the tank were cracking into a thousand
pieces. Imprisoned in the shattered web were tiny human figures, writhing
together, copulating. Globules of protoplasm drifted through the matrix; he saw
plump cells shivering, the migration of organelles. The cells divided again and
again, forming into embryos that sank as they grew heavier, sank and became
enmeshed with the others, caught in the web.
    The image
flickered and died.
    “Transmission’s
end,” said the Bardo device.
    “You lost
him?”
    “The world
reclaimed him.”
    He sank
down, turning away from the screen.
    They had
failed. Failed miserably, utterly.
    The equation
of emptiness still shone from Tashi’s slate, a half-formed proof. It seemed to
mock him. It was the nut of the problem, and without it . . .
    The assassin
had been successful enough.
    He shut down
the Bardo device without a word. Standing over Tashi’s corpse, he felt himself
seized by futility. Without his teacher to see it through, the project had come
to nothing.
    Alone, he
couldn’t possibly do the necessary work.
    It was
hopeless.
    Death would
never be an ally of humanity.
    ***
    The last
week of the tour passed all too quickly for Kate Riordan, although in a way she
was anxious for the journey to conclude. At least she knew that the end of the
trip would not mean the end of her relationship with Peter Strauss. That, it
seemed, was only beginning.
    They took
long hikes into the hills, through forests of evergreens and rhododendron,
exploring trails that ran between the scattered Tibetan settlements. These were
mainly crude buildings of stone, lacking electricity and plumbing, although
brightly painted and inhabited by cheerful residents. In vivid contrast were
the stark modern condominiums that appeared from time to time on stone outcroppings
and high ridges, reminding her in the worst possible way of California. They
looked like isolated monasteries, but sterile, unadorned with prayer flags