They found Dagny Beynac on the north rim trail. She had left her car at the shelter and gone afoot, alone, in an hour when no one else was about. It was a fairly easy hike, which she had often made, even in recent years; but her heart was old—“paper-thin,” she had said, as if she felt it flutter in a wind from outside space-time—and on the heights it failed her.
Or perhaps it did not, some among the party thought. A biomonitor in her suit would have flashed an alarm to bring the paramedics within minutes. They might have been able to restart her body. Although at her age self-clone transplants were not feasible, surrogates might have kept her alive in a maintenance unit for several more years. The team discovered that, without mentioning it, she had long since removed her monitor.
For an equally long while her habit of going topside by herself, leaving no word behind, had been the despair of her friends. When they protested, she reminded them cheerfully that she was rambling the Moon before they, and usually their parents, were born. This was her choice.
Certainly the last sight she saw had been magnificent. Here a crest ran along the top of the ringwall, high and narrow enough that to southward she spied the crater floor. That part was deeply shadowed, but the central peak thrust up into light athwart ramparts visible above the opposite horizon. Closer by, a radio mast gleamed like a victorious lance. Northward the slopes flowed down with the gentleness of Lunar rock, sharp edges worn away by skyfall, in highlights and sable. Beyond them the terrain was brighter than most, impact splash which farther onward fingered out in great rays. Mountains guarded that rim of vision. Radiance went in a tide from an Earth near the full, blue and white, the colors of sea and air, dappled with land. Elsewhere in the night burned a few brightest stars. It was the dwelling place of silence.
When her absence raised fears, the Tychopolis constabulary ordered a satellite scan. Lunarian legislators had bargained to get a law that that was done at such resolution only in emergencies. Beynac had supported them, making tart remarks about privacy. Opticals picked out the huddled shape almost at once and a squad hastened to it; but that was hours after the death.
Luna mourned. On Earth, every Fireball flag went to half-staff.
The news triggered various programs she had prepared. Most of them concerned just the tidying up of affairs. Half a dozen were messages, each personally encrypted for the recipient. One went to Lars Rydberg on Vancouver Island.
Dearest Lars,
When this reaches you I shall be gone. Farewell, fare always well, you and yours whom I have loved.
Maybe we will have been together again after the date above. Probably we’ll at least have talked by phone, as good as you are about calling. When last we did, your reserve broke down a little and you said the transmission lag, which otherwise you shrug off, felt like a small bleeding. You hurried on to something else, and I waited to cry till we were done. Yes, every time of late we have known we might not get another time. We haven’t voiced it—why should we?—but months ago I noticed, a bit surprised, that my “hasta la vista” to you had become “vaya con Dios.” Go with God.
Now you will weep. I hope you don’t keep solitary, but let Ulla comfort you. It is a gift you can give her, you know. Sten, Olaf, Linnea, Anson, William, Lucia, Runa, their spouses and children and children’s children, no, I cannot find words for them except, “How blessed I have been. Thank you, thank you.”
That is true, darling. My life was a glorious adventure. Remember me, miss me, but never pity me. There have been things I would change if I could. Of course. Above all, I would have had my Edmond and my Kaino live out their days. But the joy that was ours did not die in me; and what wonders became mine! I not only saw a dead world bloom to life and a new race arise, I helped bring it about, I helped lead us toward liberty, and meanwhile humans went to the ends of the sun’s kingdom and I was warmed by undeservedly much love. I will not let these riches go from me in dribs and drabs, among machines and chemicals, the eyes kept open while the brain behind them shrivels. No, I will live on, gladly, till I can no longer live free. Then, the medical data give reason to hope, I shall depart quickly and cleanly and altogether ready.
Afterward—I don’t suppose “afterward” means anything in this case. “Go with God” is a wish that you go in safety and happiness, no more. Maybe I’m wrong. It would be a new adventure to find out!
Regardless, nobody ever quite leaves the living universe. What we have done travels on and on, we cannot tell how far, before it’s lost in the cosmic noise. Closer to hand, duties remain to carry out, decencies to respect, mercies to grant.
And so I appeal to you, my Earth-son. You will understand what my dear Moon-children cannot. You, who have become a power within mighty Fireball, yet are wholly human, can do what neither Anson Guthrie nor any Selenarch is quite able to.
Oh, you will keep your troth. You will stay Guthrie’s man as you promised long ago. I ask just that you set aside whatever weariness of age is on you and volunteer to him your services in the cause of Lunar peace.
You have the insights, the connections, the experience, everything I showed you and confided in you and got you involved with. No, you will not be the never-existent indispensable man. But you can play a very large—and very quiet; I know you—role in the coming years. It will be hard, thankless, often maddening, possibly catastrophic, but it will better the odds, and what more can we mortals do?
Herewith is a file, which I keep updated. It summarizes the situation, the factors I believe are important, and any recommendations that occur to me. You will see that much of this is confidential. I trust you. I trust you also to study it. Then, if you agree you can make a difference, you will go to Guthrie. And God go with you.
What else? They talk of building a great tomb for my ashes, come the day. I thought of asking you to intervene as best you can, try to have them scattered where Edmond’s lie. But no, Verdea is passionate about what this would mean to everybody. If they really want it, let them. It won’t matter to me. Save your efforts for the living and the not yet born.
What does matter, though—be kind to my download.
I think that’s all. As you in your heart bid me goodnight, wish the children, from me, a good morning.
Your
Mother