Wars were without death, and the wounded kept fighting and the horridly maimed and the diseased walked the world crying out in agony, until there was no place that was free of horrors. And Death heard all the cries and the prayers, and, helpless, wept.

The very vermin in the basements of the palace multiplied, while Death lay bound and impotent; and fed upon the grain, and devoured everything, leaving the people to starve. Famine stalked the streets, and wasted men, and Disease followed raving in his wake, laughing and tearing at men and beasts.

But Death could not stir.

And at last the gods, looking down on the chaos that was earth, bestirred themselves and began to inquire what passed, for every ill was let loose on earth, and men suffered too much to attend to sacrifices.

The wisest of them knew at once what had been withheld from the world, for wherever men called on Death, he did not come. They searched the depths of earth and sea for him, who never visited the higher realms; and made inquiry among the snake-bodied children of Night, his cousins, but none had seen him.

Then from the still, shadowed quiet of Sleep crept the least of Night's children, a Dream, that wound its serpent-way to the wisest of gods and whispered, timidly, "Sisyphos." And the gods turned their all-seeing eyes on the city of Corinth, on the man named Sisyphos, on a mourning shadow in the cellars of Corinth's palace. They frowned, and earthquake shook the ground.

And quake after quake rocked the city, until pillars tottered, and people cowered in fear, and Sisyphos turned knowing eyes on his queen, and kissed her tearfully and took a key. It was fearful to enter that dark place, with the quakes rumbling and shuddering at the floor, to approach that knot of shadow that huddled in the corner, wherein baleful and angry eyes watched: he had to remember that Death is a serpent-child, and it was a serpent-shape that seemed imprisoned there, earth-wise and ancient, and unlike his twin, cold.

"Give me ten years," Sisyphos tried to bargain with him, endlessly trying. But Death said nothing, and the floor shuddered, and great cracks ran through the masonry, portending the fall of the palace. Sisyphos shivered, and thought of his queen: and then he fitted the key to the lock, and took the bonds away.

Death stood up, a swirling shadow, and cold breathed from him as Sisyphos cowered to the floor, trembling.

But it was the dark-faced, gentle king who touched him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear:

"Brave Sisyphos, come along."

And Sisyphos arose, forgetting his body that lay in the crumbling cellar, and stepped with the dark king out into the marketplace, out into a wilderness that began to die wherever the shadow fell; grass, insects, all withered and went to dust, leaving only bright, young growth; a dog's wails ceased; children's voices began to be heard; and when at last they passed the gates of Corinth, Death paused by the forlorn beggar. Death took his hand gently, and the old man shivered, and smiled, and that immortal part shook free, rising up. The soul blinked, stretched, found it easy to walk with them, on feet that were not lame.

They strode down the shore to the river, where thousands of rustling ghosts were gathering, and the ferryman was hastening to his abandoned post.

It was nine full turnings later that Death gathered to him the summer-eyed queen, and three after that before her gentle ghost appeared before his throne on the far side of the river. He smiled to see her. She smiled, a knowing and mischievous smile. She was young again. August bloomed in her hair, a glory in the dark of Hell. Far away were the meadows of asphodel, the jagged peaks that were the haunt of the children of Night. She was beginning her journey.

"Come," said Death, and took her hand, and led her with his thousand-league strides across the meadow and beyond to the dark mountains.

There was a trail, much winding, upon a mountainside; and high upon it toiled a strong young king, covered in sweat, who heaved a stone along. Vast it was, and heavy, but he was determined, and patient. He heaved it up another hand's breadth, and braced himself to catch his breath and try again.

"He can be free, you know," whispered Death in the young queens ear, "once he sets it on yonder pinnacle."

And gently Death set her on the roadside, saw the young king turn, wonder in his eyes, the stone forgotten. It crashed rumbling down the trail, bounding and rebounding, to shatter on the floor of the Pit and send echoes reverberating the length and breadth of Hell. A moment Sisyphos stared after it in dismay; then with a laugh that outrang the echoes, opened his arms to the young queen Merope.

Death smiled, and turned away, with thousand-league strides crossing the plains of Hell until he reached his throne. And remembering duty, he extended himself again into his thousand, thousand shapes, and sighed.

1979

HOMECOMING

Dark . . . Nothing. There had been nothing for a long, long dormancy. Tuclick drifted into the system, expended precious reserve energy to scan, to decide that this system too was useless. It fixed on another star, launched itself outward, sublight.

It was hungry. It settled into a cold torpor, lasting years. The hunger remained, and a dim anxiety. This host was all but drained. It had been too long. Tuclick had used the shell too recklessly, remaining awake, skimming star to star, consuming energy in the confidence the next star, the next, the next, would replenish what it so profligately consumed. But there had been no new hosts. Tuclick drifted now, conserving over time meaningless in its almost-sleep, negligible against the memories of long wanderings stored within it, buried below the level of consciousness, buried with the memory of its makers.

Now was a dim, biding apprehension. The warrior shell held no further promise of survival. It was helpless as it drifted into the new system.

Power. Scan locked on it, abundant, exciting. Tuclick pursued, agitated, fearing its escape, lacking power for the weapons of the warrior host. Several sources came into scan. Tuclick continued doggedly after the original, the most accessible. The interval lessened. Contact. Tuclick grappled, held. Its probe disengaged from the dying host; Tuclick came fully alive, expending dangerously as it sent its alloy body hurtling down empty corridors to the lock. It exited, contacted the new host, absorbed power. More systems came to life within. It found entry, settled, became aware of its host, suddenly disappointed, frightened at its weakness. The vast body was only a connected series of hollow compartments. It held memory of a destination. Tuclick absorbed this, suddenly felt the systems begin to fail. Tuclick swiftly powered down section after section of the vast useless body, but the destination—the destination it too sought, eagerly, possibilities of a direction out of this long wilderness, this desert of stars. The host sought a haven it knew. Tuclick bided, hungry—the host leapt recklessly into hyperspace—Tuclick rode it, willing to let it run, certain now of energy waiting where the host fled. Emergence. Tuclick scanned in sudden panic, sensing a trap.

No power. A primitive world lay under scan. Tuclick rode, waiting, helpless. And then the tiniest pulse of interest, a minuscule pulse of energy. Marker-beacon. In its desperation Tuclick did not scorn even this, came down on it, opened the bay, swallowed it up. Quick operations drained it. Tuclick used the power carefully, oh, so carefully, calculating with rising panic that it could not have this star and survive to the next. The host was not sufficient. The marker-beacon gave only a temporary source. Tuclick felt the threat of dissolution—ruin. Ship.