There are no starships left, but there is one avenue of escape. A kind of escape.

  Parked in high orbit there is a huge interplanetary transport that was used in the terraforming of Mars. It’s a couple of centuries older than you, but like yourself it has been excellently preserved. We are going to ride it out to a distance sufficient to survive the Sun’s catastrophe, and there remain until the situation improves, or does not.

  This is where I enter the picture. For our survival to be meaningful in this thousand-year war, we have to resort to coldsleep. And for a large number of people to survive centuries of coldsleep, they need my jaturnary skills. Alone, in the ice, they would go slowly mad. Connected through the matrix of my mind, they will have a sense of community, and may come out of it intact.

  I will be gone, of course. I will be by the time you read this. Not dead, but immersed in service. I could not be revived if this were only a hundred people for a hundred days. This will be a thousand, perhaps for a thousand years.

  No one else on Earth can do jaturnary, and there is neither time nor equipment for me to transfer my ability to anyone. Even if there were, I’m not sure I would trust anyone else’s skill. So I am gone.

  My only loss is losing you. Do I have to elaborate on that?

  You can come if you want. In order to use the transport, I had to agree that the survivors be chosen in accordance with the Earth’s strict class system—starting with dear Norita, and from that pinnacle, on down—but they were willing to make exceptions for all of the visiting artists. You have until mid-Deciembre to decide; the ship leaves Januar first.

  If I know you at all, I know you would rather stay behind and die. Perhaps the prospect of living “in” me could move you past your fear of coldsleep; your aversion to jaturnary. If not, not.

  I love you more than life. But this is more than that. Are we what we are?

  W.H.

  The last sentence is a palindrome in her language, not mine, that I believe has some significance beyond the obvious.

  ••□

  I did think about it for some time. Weighing a quick death, or even a slow one, against spending centuries locked frozen in a tiny room with Norita and her ilk. Chattering on at the speed of synapse, and me unable to not listen.

  I have always valued quiet, and the eternity of it that I face is no more dreadful than the eternity of quiet that preceded my birth.

  If White Hill were to be at the other end of those centuries of torture, I know I could tolerate the excruciation. But she was dead now, at least in the sense that I would never see her again.

  Another woman might have tried to give me a false hope, the possibility that in some remote future the process of jaturnary would be advanced to the point where her personality could be recovered. But she knew how unlikely that would be even if teams of scientists could be found to work on it, and years could be found for them to work in. It would be like unscrambling an egg.

  Maybe I would even do it, though, if there were just some chance that, when I was released from that din of garrulous bondage, there would be something like a real world, a world where I could function as an artist. But I don’t think there will even be a world where I can function as a man.

  There probably won’t be any humanity at all, soon enough. What they did to the Sun they could do to all of our stars, one assumes. They win the war, the Extermination, as my parent called it. Wrong side exterminated.

  Of course the Fwndyri might not find White Hill and her charges. Even if they do find them, they might leave them preserved as an object of study.

  The prospect of living on eternally under those circumstances, even if there were some growth to compensate for the immobility and the company, holds no appeal.

  •□

  What I did in the time remaining before mid-Deciembre was write this account. Then I had it translated by a xenolinguist into a form that she said could be decoded by any creature sufficiently similar to humanity to make any sense of the story. Even the Fwndyri, perhaps. They’re human enough to want to wipe out a competing species.

  I’m looking at the preliminary sheets now, English down the left side and a jumble of dots, squares, and triangles down the right. Both sides would have looked equally strange to me a few years ago.

  White Hill’s story will be conjoined to a standard book that starts out with basic mathematical principles, in dots and squares and triangles, and moves from that into physics, chemistry, biology. Can you go from biology to the human heart? I have to hope so. If this is read by alien eyes, long after the last human breath is stilled, I hope it’s not utter gibberish.

  □

  So I will take this final sheet down to the translator and then deliver the whole thing to the woman who is going to transfer it to permanent sheets of platinum, which will be put in a prominent place aboard the transport. They could last a million years, or ten million, or more. After the Sun is a cinder, and the ship is a frozen block enclosing a thousand bits of frozen flesh, she will live on in this small way.

  So now my work is done. I’m going outside, to the quiet.

  Charles Sheffield was born in England and received his doctorate in physics from Cambridge University. After a notable career in space science, particularly in satellite observation of the Earth, he has turned to an energetic career in hard SF. From his first novel, Sight of Proteus, he has dealt in large, philosophically deep issues embodied in scientific issues. It was no accident that he published a novel on the “orbital elevator” concept, The Web Between the Stars, the same year as Arthur Clarke’s The Fountains of Paradise was published. In many ways he resembles Clarke in interests and depth.

  In “At the Eschaton,” Sheffield takes us from the present to the very end of time. His protagonist is a man of Shakespearean scale, obsessive, using space and time as a stage for his grand passion. This view of humans as the focus of their own narratives lies at the core of much ardent science fiction, such as Frank Herbert’s Dune. To many in the hard-science-fiction community, the only protagonist worthy of us is the universe itself. Its cool laws ignore us. The slight is not overlooked.

  AT THE ESCHATON

  Charles Sheffield

  Time: the Great Healer, the Universal Solvent.

  And if time cannot be granted?

  When Drake Merlin finally received a clear medical diagnosis after months of specialist hedging and secret terrors and false hopes, Ana had less than five weeks to live. She was already in a final decline. Suddenly, after six marvelous years together and a future that seemed to spread out before them for fifty more, they saw the world collapse to a handful of days.

  Drake had known in his heart that there was a big problem. Ana’s loss of weight and general lassitude were bad omens. But it was the translucent, waxen sheen to her forehead and the fine blue veins on her temples that had delivered the worst message. When Tom Lambert, a close personal friend as well as Drake’s own family doctor, provided the grim biopsy result it was no real surprise.

  “An operation?” Ana, as always, was calm and rational.

  Tom shook his head. “Too widespread.”

  “How about chemotherapy?”

  “We’ll try that, naturally.” Tom hesitated. “But I have to tell you, Ana, the prognosis with what you have is not good. We can treat you, but we can’t cure you.”

  “I guess that’s it, then.” Ana stood up, already a little unsteady on her feet because of the muscle loss in her legs. “I’m going to bring coffee for all of us. It ought to have perked by now. Cream and sugar, Tom?”

  “Uh—yes.” Tom looked up at her unhappily. “No, I mean, cream, no sugar. Whatever.”

  As soon as Ana was safely out of the room he turned to Drake. “She’s in denial. That’s natural and not at all surprising. It will take a while for her to adjust.”

  “No.” Drake Merlin stood up and went across to the window. The last heavy snow of the winter was melting, and fresh green shoots of spring growth were poking through. “You don’t know Ana. She’s the ultimate realist. Not like me. I’m the one that’s in denial.”

  “I’m going to prescribe painkillers for Ana. As much as she needs. There’s no virtue in pain, and in a case like this I don’t worry about addiction. And I’m going to prescribe tranquilizers, too—for both of you.” Tom looked toward the kitchen, making sure that Ana was still out of earshot. “At times like this, I feel that medical science is still in the dark ages. You might as well know the truth, there’s not one damned thing we can do for her. Forget the chemotherapy. If it buys more than a few weeks for Anastasia I’ll be surprised. As a doctor I have to worry about you now, Drake. Don’t neglect your own health. And remember I can be here, night or day, whenever either one of you needs me.”

  Ana was coming back. She paused on the threshold, holding a tray of cups, coffeepot, and cream. She smiled and arched an eyebrow. “Safe for me to come back in?”

  Drake looked at her. She was thin and fragile, but she had never been more beautiful. At the idea of living without her his heart dropped within his chest, to lodge like a cold, heavy stone in the pit of his belly. And then, just as quickly, his mood changed to fierce determination.

  Ana was his life, without her there was nothing. He could not bear to lose her, he would not lose her. Ever.

  When Tom had gone and Ana was in the bedroom, Drake flushed his prescription down the drain. There would be enough opportunity for sorrow later. Now he had work to do and little time to do it. He needed all his faculties, unblurred by drugs. He and Ana had always done their thinking and planning together. It couldn’t be like that this time. If Ana knew or guessed what he had in mind, she would veto it. She would make him promise, on her dying body, that he would not do it.

  So she must not know, must never even suspect.

  It took three frantic weeks to make his plans, sleeping a couple of hours a night, making his long-distance telephone calls when Ana lay in drugged sleep. For a few days after that he and Ana seemed to live in an opiate dreamworld, touching, smiling, savoring each other, drifting.

  Except that Drake had taken no drugs and he could not afford to drift. When he was ready for the final step, he called Tom Lambert and asked him to come over to the house.

  Tom arrived early in the evening. It was fantastic May weather, with spring flowers leaping to blossom and bursting life everywhere except in the darkened house. Ana was sleeping in the front bedroom. Tom gave her a brief examination, then led Drake into the living room. He shook his head.

  “It’s going even faster than I thought. At this rate Anastasia will pass into a final coma in the next three or four days. You ought to let me take her to a hospital now. You really don’t want to see what’s coming. And you need the rest. You don’t look as though you’ve had a wink of sleep yourself for the past month.”

  “There’ll be time enough for sleep. I want her to stay here with me.” Drake placed Tom in the window seat and sat himself down opposite, knee to knee. He explained what he had been doing for the past few weeks, what he wanted Tom to do in the next few.

  Tom Lambert heard him out without a word. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

  “If that’s what you want to do, Drake, it’s your call.” There was a pitying look in his eyes. “I’ll help you, of course I will. And Anastasia has nothing at all to lose. But you realize, don’t you, that they’ve never done a successful thaw and revival?”

  “On fish, and amphibians—”

  “Which means next to nothing. We’re talking humans. I have to tell you, in my opinion you are wasting your time. Just making the whole thing harder for yourself. What does Ana have to say about the idea?”

  “Not much.” It was a direct lie. The idea had never been discussed with her. “She’s willing, maybe more for my sake than hers. She thinks that it won’t work, but she agrees that she has nothing to lose. Look, I’d rather you don’t even mention this to her. It’s almost like assuming she is already dead. I’ll prepare the papers for you to sign. And I’ll get Ana’s signature.”

  “Better not wait too long.” Tom’s face was grim. “If you’re going to do it, she has to be able to hold a pen.”

  Four days later Drake called Tom Lambert again to the house. The doctor went to the bedroom, felt Ana’s pulse, and took blood pressure and brain-wave readings.

  He emerged stone-faced. “I’m afraid this is it, Drake. I’ll be very surprised if she regains consciousness. If you are still set on this thing, it has to be done now. She still has some signs of normal body functions. Another three days and it will be a waste of time.”

  The two men went together into the bedroom. Drake took a last look at Ana’s calm, ravaged face. He told himself that this was not a last farewell. At last he nodded to Tom.

  “Any time.”

  Time, time A waste of time. To the end of time. Time heals all wounds. Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return.

  “Go ahead, Tom. There’s no point in waiting.”

  The physician injected five cc’s of Asfanil. Working together, they lifted Ana from the bed and removed her clothes. Drake wheeled in the prepared thermal tank He laid her gently into it. She was so light, it was as though part of her was already lost to him.

  While Tom filled out the death certificate, Drake placed the call to Second Chance. He told them to come at once to the house. He set the tank at three degrees above freezing, as instructed. Tom inserted the catheters and the IVs. The next stages were automatic, controlled by the tank s own programs. Blood was withdrawn through a large hollow needle in the main external iliac artery, cooled a precise amount, and returned to the femoral vein.

  In ten minutes Ana’s body temperature had dropped thirty degrees All life signs had vanished. She was now legally dead. By an earlier generation, Drake Merlin and Tom Lambert would have been judged murderers. It was hard for Tom not to feel that way as they sat in the silence of the bedroom, awaiting the arrival of the Second Chance team. Drake’s thoughts were fortunately beyond his friend’s imaginings.

  Drake had a hard time persuading Tom Lambert and the three women who arrived from Second Chance. Not one of them could see a reason for Drake to go over to the Second Chance preparation facility with Ana’s body.

  Tom thought that Drake just couldn’t face the idea that it was all over, and he urged his friend to come on home with him. The preparation team didn’t know what to make of it. Drake probably seemed like a ghoul to them, or maybe some sort of necrophiliac. They carefully explained that the procedures were most unpleasant to watch, especially for someone who was personally involved. Wouldn’t Drake be much better off leaving everything to their experienced hands, and going to stay with his friend? They would make sure that everything was all right, and if he was worried they would be sure to call him as soon as the work was finished.

  Drake couldn’t tell them the real reason why he had to see the whole preparation procedure down to the last grisly detail. But by simply refusing to take no for an answer, he at last had his way.

  The head of the team became convinced that Drake wanted to come along because he was afraid that some element of the job would be botched. She explained carefully to him on the one-hour drive, sitting opposite him in the rear of the van next to the temperature-controlled casket.

  “Most of the Revivables—we much prefer that term to ‘cryo-corpses’—are stored at liquid nitrogen temperatures. That’s about minus two hundred degrees Celsius. It’s almost certainly cold enough. But it’s still about seventy-five degrees above absolute zero. Although all measurable biological processes become imperceptible long before that, you can argue that there are plenty of chemical reactions going on. The laws of statistics guarantee that a few atoms will still have enough energy to induce biological changes. And mind and memory are very delicate things. So for people who are worried about that, we make available the deluxe version. That’s what you bought. Your wife will be stored at liquid helium temperatures, just a couple of degrees above absolute zero. Super-safe. When it’s so cold the chance of change, physical or mental, goes way down.”

  And the cost, although she did not mention the fact, went way up. But cost was not even a variable to be considered in Drake’s perspective. He hung around the preparation room, ignoring all hints that he should wait outside, and he watched closely.

  The team were not unsympathetic. They were now convinced that he was simply terrified that a mistake would be made, and they finally allowed him to see everything and answered all his questions. He was careful not to ask anything that sounded too clinical and dispassionate. The main thing he wanted was to see, to know at absolute first hand what had been done, and in what sequence.

  After the first few minutes there was not much to see, anyway. He knew that all the air cavities within Ana’s body had been filled with neutral solution, and her blood replaced with anticrystalloids. But then she went into the seamless pressure chamber. The body was held there at three degrees above freezing, while pressure was raised slowly to five thousand atmospheres. After that was done, the temperature drop started.

  “Back in the seventies and eighties, they had no idea of this technique.” The team leader was talking to Drake, perhaps with the false idea that she might be able to make him feel more relaxed. “They used to do the freezing at atmospheric pressure. There was a formation of ice crystals within the cells as the temperature dropped, and it was a mess when the thaw was done. No return to consciousness at all.”

  She smiled reassuringly at Drake, who was not reassured at all. So they didn’t know what they were doing in the seventies and eighties. Would they claim, in twenty more years, that people didn’t know what they were doing now? But there was no alternative to that risk. He couldn’t wait for twenty years.