16

Concealed behind a magnifier mask, his face dripped with a sweat borne of intense concentration. His sausage fingers worked swiftly beneath thin rubber gloves, delicately manipulating fine tools that decades before had become an extension of himself, working miracles time and again.

But not today.

The chief surgeon backed away from the operating table, knowing that the battle was lost despite his precision and experience. The still form upon the table would never again move or speak or look upon the natural beauty of the world that had given it birth. Several of the assisting surgeons and nurses around the table, knowing that all hope was gone, hung their heads and looked away.

“Take him out of here,” the chief surgeon ordered. “Make the preparations.”

Leaving the dying man to the others, the weary healer left the operating theater and stripped away his mask and gloves. After changing out of his bloodied blue coveralls, he walked out of the sterile healing complex and into the crowded lounge where so many waited for word of his success or failure. He spotted the stunningly attractive woman he sought, whose lovely face was only partially concealed beneath her sheer veil. The veil was customary, a symbol worn only in public, distinguishing its wearer as the wife of someone high in the government hierarchy.

The man wove his way through the sea of family and officials and walked up to her, carefully forming words in his mind, words meant to deal a severe blow as painlessly as possible.

“Kira Shass,” he began, speaking slowly and reluctantly, looking into the eyes behind the veil, “I am sorry, but I have failed you. I was able to repair the extensive muscle and tissue damage done by the knife … and if that were the extent of his injury, he would be able to walk out of here tomorrow with barely a scar to remind him of this night. But your husband lost almost half of his blood volume and suffered massive brain damage, due to the blood flow being cut off when a main artery was severed—”

“Healer Sora,” the woman interrupted, her eyes filled with tears, “is my husband dead?”

“No. But soon, yes. There is no brain function. He is being kept alive artificially at this moment. The neural regeneration we attempted was insufficient; too many critical areas of his brain have suffered irreversible cell death.”

Several government officials overheard the exchange and at once scrambled for the exits. With Shass’ death, a reorganization of the government would immediately commence as others in power played musical chairs for his position and those of his cabinet members. Some of those rushing out into the night were already joyfully anticipating what they would strip from his body as it lay in state.

A second healer appeared at the door through which Healer Sora had come. “You had better hurry,” he said to the doctor and Kira Shass. “The life sustainment is failing.”

They rushed to the postoperative room where Shass was lying, his body almost hidden within a vast array of bright metal-and-glass machinery that droned quietly with an even, low-pitched hum and the sound of circulating liquids. A crowd of healers and government officials stood by, watching helplessly. The life-giving apparatus completely enshrouded Shass’ bed, save for a small area on his left side where a person could attend to him—or say good-bye.

Hervie, already treated and released, stood nearby and looked sadly upon the slain president as he slipped away. Other Watchers were gathered there as well, knowing that they were losing the man they had been sworn to protect.

Kira Shass kissed her husband one final time, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

“Be certain to record the time of death as soon as he passes,” Healer Sora said quietly to another healer beside him.

Kira Shass turned and walked away from the bed, pausing momentarily to lean on Hervie as she struggled to gather herself. Wiping away the tears, she took a deep breath and turned with great nobility toward the door. Hervie watched as the strong woman departed.

“The announcement should be made immediately afterward,” he said, turning to an associate. “A great man has left us … see to it that the people are made aware of that.”

“Yes, Kir Hervie,” the younger Watcher said, heading toward the hospital’s media center.

He still felt a bit weak, but T. G., lying in a wide bed, was emerging from the haze. Looking around, he found that the room around him was fairly similar to the one he had seen in the doctor’s office during his first visit to Noron. The antiseptic smell that hung in the air confirmed that he was in a medical facility of some sort.

Must every hospital on every planet smell like this?

His bed was surrounded by unfamiliar pieces of equipment, reflecting a healing science unknown to Earth. Brightly colored crystals embedded in small chromed devices spoke of an almost magical ability to heal. Sculpted glass shapes with no apparent internal mechanism glowed with colored displays that T. G. hoped were normal for a person in good health. There was a lot of red within the readouts, much more than T. G. felt comfortable seeing.

Is red bad? It usually is, at least at home. But I feel okay … don’t I?

On the wall directly facing him, life-sized, was a rather disquieting real-time image of T. G. that revealed all of his inner workings. He looked at it with in both fascination and disgust. Like an x-ray, but in full color and in three dimensions, his bones and internal organs were displayed for all to see. He waved his arms, moved his head, mouthed words, and watched as the image did it all. As revolting as the sight was, he could not look away. Lidless eyes in bony sockets stared back at him. Pinkish gray intestines coursed back and forth amid wet, pulsing organs. He watched his heart beating for a count of five, then finally averted his eyes and fixed them upon something else. Anything else.

Voices sounded beyond the translucent blue door of his room, drawing his attention to the hallway just outside. Hazy figures moved there as well, seemingly in conversation, until one reached out for the door handle.

T. G. watched as the door soundlessly swung open to reveal the woman he had seen outside Grodnal’s ancient mansion. In her slender hands she held the veil he had seen her wearing earlier. Her hair was like spun honey, just like Jenni’s. She wore a beautiful, pearlescent wrap dress that shimmered like silk and showed her every curve to its best advantage. No one on Noron had ever invented the high-heeled pump, so the women there, like the men, wore only flat-soled shoes of fairly conventional design. Her jewelry—a delicate necklace and bracelets of jeweled gold—sparkled in the light. She approached him, her beautiful, towering form seeming taller still as she grew close. He saw that her face had been stained by recent tears, and her eyes were still slightly red.

“You are awake,” she said, smiling slightly as she took a seat next to his bed. “I am glad to see it.”

“Only now,” he replied, rubbing his forehead. “I feel like I was hit by a truck.”

“A tarruk?” she asked, puzzled by his mention of the roselike flower.

“Nothing,” he smiled. “Never mind. Just an old expression.” He glanced again at the image on the wall, then called the woman’s attention to it. “Can you turn that off or put a sheet over it or something? I’d really appreciate it …”

The woman reached over and touched a plate to one side. The image disappeared.

“Thank you. It was getting to me.”

She sat in a nearby chair. “You were injured at Grodnal’s fortress. Do you remember?”

T. G. thought back to what he had seen in that awful chamber, to his battle with the magician, and to his encounter outside.

“Yes. I remember. You were there.”

“Who are you?” the woman asked, obviously noting his pale skin and oddly colored eyes.

“A friend.” He smiled. Then, thinking that secrecy was unkind given the circumstances, he opened up a bit more. “T. G.… T. G. Shass.”

“Shass? You mean …”

“No,” he smiled anew. “No relation.”

“Everyone who shares a name is related.”

“I’m from very far away,” he tried to explain. “I’m a different … kindred.”

She smiled. “Well, it is nice to meet you, Kir Shass. I am Sereen Shass, Paull’s wife.”

“You told those men to help me. Why?”

She smiled. “I do not know exactly. The moment you came spilling from that doorway, I knew there was something special about you. I felt compelled to help you. I cannot give you a better explanation than that.”

“Well, thank you, in any case,” he said, smiling in return. “What was that all about, anyway, with that Grodnal person? Where am I now? I don’t remember everything.”

“This is a private government hospital,” she said. “You were brought here a few hours ago, along with Kir Hervie and the president.” She looked down at her lap, her mind obviously troubled. “Paull was kidnapped from our home. I do not know how, with our high security. But Grodnal managed it … and now …” She hung her head.

“Kir Shass … is he …?”

“For all purposes, my husband has died,” the woman bravely said, taking a deep breath. “He is on total life sustainment, and it is rapidly failing. I came here because I wanted to thank you, while I still had the opportunity, for your attempt at saving him.”

T. G. admired her for her obvious inner strength. “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”

“Kir Hervie described what you did in that chamber under the fortress. He said you risked your life to defend Paull … that you fought and killed Grodnal.”

“Too little, too late. It wasn’t enough.”

“It was courageous, nonetheless, and will not be forgotten. I am grateful and in your debt, T. G.” She looked upon him with wider, clearer eyes. “To have shown such power, you are special indeed. Few sorcerers can do what you did, and none so young. And I see now that you are not like most men … you look quite different without the makeup and eye lenses.”

“Oh,” he uttered, looking again at his arms and hands. “That. It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“No need,” she smiled, rising. “The healers say you sustained no lingering injury. You may leave any time you wish. Some wanted you detained for interrogation, but I carry my husband’s authority, at least for the moment. I suggest you leave this place quickly.”

He looked at her, momentarily distracted from her words by her beauty. She was seven feet in height and perfectly proportioned, as lovely as any woman on Earth, only larger. “I will,” he finally answered. “Thank you for your help.”

There was a sudden rush in the corridor outside. Turning toward the sound, T. G. and Sereen both saw the blurred shapes of several men as they ran past, all headed in the same direction. One paused long enough to poke his head through the door.

“Kira Shass,” the Watcher said to her, “come with me.”

She followed, leaving T. G. alone to search the room for his clothes.

Puzzled by the commotion, Sereen stood in the open doorway of the postoperative area where she had last seen her husband. Can you not leave him in peace? she wondered. The room was filled with dozens of healers, all huddled around the bed where her husband lay dying, uttering medical phrases and astonished speculations among themselves.

Overhearing fragments, the woman allowed herself a flicker of hope. The flicker then swelled into a tiny flame, and holding her breath, she stepped forward.

As the healers gazed upon the bed, blocking it from the woman’s sight, she moved slowly closer, forcing her way through the throng to reach the place where she had given him her last kiss. Turning to see the woman behind him, a healer yielded his place to her, allowing her to the bedside.

Her amazed eyes filled with tears of joy as they beheld her husband’s smile.

“Hello, Sereen,” he said. No longer prone, he was sitting up in the bed, apparently fully recovered. “What is all this fuss about?”

“Oh, Paull!” she cried, leaning in and embracing him.

The nation of Luracayn rejoiced, and the entire world of Noron stood looking on in utter amazement. Paull Shass had all but died, the victim of an attack that should have ended his life forever, yet now he lived again. The healers speculated about his recovery during simulight broadcasts, all of them left with little explanation for what they had witnessed firsthand. His lost blood volume had suddenly returned. His severely damaged brain had healed itself in mere minutes. He was whole again and no worse for wear.

Surely Drosha had blessed him, the world knew. Surely this is a sign that he is to lead us. Surely he is chosen.

Surely.

The world fell at his feet.

Sereen Shass, grateful beyond measure, invited T. G. to come and stay in her home, where she could ensure he was properly rewarded for saving Paull’s life. Since Ish had told him that involvement with the Shasses of Noron was the next phase in what he was to do, he agreed. Sereen treated T. G. like something of a lucky charm and enjoyed keeping him within arm’s length.

Upon leaving the hospital, he was whisked immediately to the president’s home and treated like one of the family. Given his own room and command of the house servants, T. G. found himself enjoying the greatest luxury Noron had to offer—the best foods, the best drink, the best clothes, the best of everything. His relatively short stature and other obvious physical differences were certainly noticed but ignored by those around him, for Sereen’s blanket acceptance of him demanded the same from those in her employ. He quickly grew to enjoy the luxuries Noron now offered him, and he even gained a few pounds. The opulence of the State was stunning, a different world from the one he had known on the streets.

Sereen had every luxury any woman could want. Her clothes, her jewelry, her every possession spoke of a wealth made available to only a few. She had servants ready to act upon her every whim and was pampered constantly, with a trained staff standing by each day to dress her and do her hair and makeup. Noron’s cosmetics fascinated T. G. from a scientific standpoint, for much of what the planet’s women did in beautifying themselves seemingly spoke of magic rather than science. They used conventional makeup and artfully crafted gadgets as pleasant to look at as they were functional. One seemingly unpowered device—a five-inch chrome rod called a colorwand—was rare and especially puzzling to T. G. Merely by stroking its sides down the hair’s length, a woman’s hair color could be varied to any she desired. As her houseguest watched one day, Sereen gave him a demonstration during which she went from blonde to brunette to redhead in less than a minute, then back to blonde again, for that was the way Paull liked it.

Coming and going on the Shass’ property as he pleased, even his former life on Earth began to pale for him and the good life took its toll on his mind, if not his body. The house was a palace, a place of beauty and great contentment. The lush garden was an exquisite dance of color and life. He looked forward to his numerous conversations with Sereen, and found her to be a brilliant and pleasant companion. He came to enjoy getting anything day or night simply by asking the servants for it. In a short time, he got used to having all his needs and appetites met, all his wishes granted. He felt safe and comfortable and content.

After a few weeks in the president’s home, T. G. decided it would be a good idea to learn more about Paull Shass. Exploring the house library, he discovered scrapbooks, recent histories, and periodicals pertaining to the president’s career. He spent many afternoons building a clear mental portrait of the man who was his host.

The Paull Shass T. G. read about seemed a highly ambitious man, driven by a raw hunger for the power that high political office provided. His rise through the political maze of Luracayn’s governmental structure had been meteoric, breaking all convention as he went from novice to Napoleon virtually overnight. Many had died or been ruined by scandal during his climb, as was the rule—the history of Noronian government was primarily one of advancement through assassination. Many more had found a way to grab onto his coattails, rising to power with him and making sure that nothing and no one got in their way.

He had married Sereen just after his entry into politics, at the suggestion of his advisers. Servants told the new houseguest that Paull had always spoken down to the woman and largely ignored her, which angered T. G. He felt Sereen deserved better than to live merely as an abused ornament on the president’s arm, particularly since there was little doubt in his mind that she genuinely loved Paull.

It was the event of the season. Hosted by Celestte Gesbal, the queen of Luracaynian society and widow of a former high official, the party was a celebration of Paull’s recovery, and only carefully selected prominent figures were there. Government officials, government-supported entertainment personalities, government-supported drug designers, and government-supported musicians were invited to share in the joy of the moment. Held only two weeks after the attempted assassination, it was a celebration as much of the coming world unity as it was of the miraculous recovery of the president—and one T. G. Shass was on the guestlist.

The hovercar silently came to a stop before a palatial house bathed in red light. Never had T. G. seen such a place—set well back from the street, behind huge statues of two of Noron’s more ancient military leaders, its elegant lawn was artfully manicured with broad-branched trees, low hedges, and impressive sparkling fountains.

“Here we are,” Sereen whispered to T. G., smiling. As alert and visibly armed Watchers surrounded them, the president, his wife, and their guest stepped out of the vehicle and made their way toward the thirty-foot-tall chiseled double doors that were the building’s main entry. The man’s black robes spoke of power. The woman’s emerald wrapdress glistened, as did her sheer veil. T. G.’s blue robes, custom-tailored, suited him well.

Like something out of a DeMille vision of Heaven, the mansion was Celestte’s home, boasting all the opulence that her late husband had been known for. Ever the dutiful politician’s wife, Celestte had let him have his way with the house—although she secretly found the decadence much more enjoyable now that it was entirely hers. Its exterior resembled an Egyptian temple, with immense pillars and walls of a glimmering white stone covered in muralistic carvings. As the heavy main entry doors swung open, the pink marble walls and floors inside glistened in the light of immense crystalline chandeliers. Music spilled out into the night, in flowing yet oddly discordant tones that sounded to T. G. like those produced by a theremin. Thousands, it seemed, had gathered inside already, packing the floor and lining high balconies, milling about amid huge stone sculptures of heroes, monsters, and gods. A bluish smoke hung in the air.

“Paull!” Celestte called out, personally welcoming them as they passed beyond the maze of security men who guarded the entry foyer. She held an intricately decorated golden chalice in her hand, sipping from it as she grew closer. “Sereen, I’m so happy to see you.” She looked down at T. G., cocking her head slightly to one side as she studied him. “And this must be T. G. Welcome—I have heard much about you.” She placed her free hand on his shoulder, and he returned the gesture—it was Noron’s equivalent of shaking hands.

“Thank you for inviting me,” T. G. smiled.

A cheer went up in the room as the crowd saw that their man of the hour had arrived. Several women came up and kissed Paull in a far-too-familiar fashion, to Sereen’s visible displeasure. Obviously thrilled by the adulation, President Shass was quickly swept away into the crowd, which longed to look anew upon Noron’s chosen savior. Through her long, side-swept veil, T. G. saw the hurt on Sereen’s face as she watched her husband disappear from view.

“This … is amazing,” he commented, trying to divert her attention.

“Oh, yes,” she nodded. “I have never seen a larger gathering, not in a private home.”

“What do you say we take a seat somewhere and relax?”

“It looks like there are a few empty chairs over there,” Sereen pointed, indicating the far side of the room. Just then a waiter with a tray of drinks walked up, and Sereen took one. T. G. did as well, not wanting to appear rude. But before they could sit down, a persistent woman insisted Sereen join her for a moment and drew her into a small crowd.

“Find a couple of seats,” Sereen told T. G., gesturing toward the chairs as she turned to follow the woman. “I will be right there.” Then she was gone, vanished in a sea of giants.

Following her suggestion, he made his way deeper into the cavernous ballroom, trying to stay near the outer walls so as not to get swallowed up into the throng. He was amazed at the naked, garish excess that surrounded him. No emperor of Rome knew greater luxury than that upon which his eyes now looked. Gold was everywhere. Set into a far wall was a huge band shell of silver and inlaid pearl, within which the live electronic music was being played. Those in attendance were dressed in robes of the finest make and material, a sign of their lofty stations in life. Many of the women in the room wore veils similar to that of Sereen, for their husbands, too, were high members of the Luracaynian government.

T. G. finally made his way to the small row of plush chairs, carrying his unwanted drink. He was thirsty, but not for alcohol, and he was sorry he had taken the glass. He set it on a small, low table next to one of the chairs and sat down, still trying to take in the ostentatious display all around him.

He had never been very comfortable at formal occasions, preferring more relaxed and casual social interaction. He was made even more uncomfortable by the drug use going on all around him, watching as some of the other guests inhaled blue smoke from crystalline things like those he had previously seen in the city streets. The planet’s most common diversions were the purely physical and very temporary pleasures of sex or drug abuse, and markets on almost every street corner featured a wide variety of alcoholic beverages, chemical stimulants, and narcotics.

Many who passed him looked him over curiously, never introducing themselves but stealing second and third glances as they moved farther away.

T. G.’s attention was suddenly drawn upward by color and movement that startled him. Dozens of phantom, fluid shapes filled the air high above the ballroom floor, and to his surprise, the spectral objects were greeted by a sustained round of enthusiastic applause. Holographic and brilliantly colored, glistening like an odd combination of gelatin and the aurora borealis, the huge, glistening, random forms writhed and danced in time to the ethereal music as they orbited the main, central chandelier. Organic in character, the shapes struck T. G. as being alive—and for a reason he could not pin down, he found himself uncomfortable in their presence.

It then occurred to him, as he took a verifying look, that there were no ghastly renewals in the room. Neither had he seen any in the hospital or in the Shass’ home. Were they restricted to dwelling only with those of the lower class, where despondency and hopelessness had forced the people to cling desperately to the few familiar joyances their lives already knew?

After a short time, the music changed to a more pleasant and melodious piece dominated by stringed instruments. The colored shapes vanished as quickly as they had come, and sounds of disappointment briefly filled the room.

Sereen emerged from the crowd with her drink, a deep, rich wine. She had pulled her shimmering green veil back, exposing her loveliness. She noticed that T. G.’s glass, on the table, was still full.

“Do you not partake?” she asked him, sipping from her own. “I do not think I ever asked before.”

“Not usually,” he admitted, “but I didn’t want to be rude.” He picked up the glass, took a taste, and found it more viscous than normal wine. It clung to the inside of his crystal glass like cough syrup, and burned his throat and sinuses going down.

“On … on second thought,” he coughed, his eyes tearing up, “perhaps something else would be better.” What is this stuff? “I don’t suppose they have Dr Pepper here?” he kidded, smiling in turn at the woman’s questioning expression. “Never mind,” he assured her. “I’ll find something.”

She sat next to him. He turned to her, making a circle high in the air with his finger. “Those colored things … what were they?”

“Those were the joylights,” she smiled. “They appear anywhere people are gathered to enjoy life, to share in the moment.”

“Joylights?” he puzzled.

“That is what we have come to call them.”

“What do you mean by ‘share in the moment’?” he asked, seeking confirmation of his own impressions. “You mean they’re alive?”

“No one knows. They come and go in their own good time, and they always have. No man has ever laid a hand on one, and they never make a sound. They act as if alive, though, and everyone has always assumed they are.”

He looked up at the now-vacant space above him, considering her words. On Noron, only the wealthy and powerful ever celebrated life in such a manner, and he doubted that anyone of the lower class had ever seen the joylights. He himself never had, and surely Pretsal would have mentioned such a phenomenon at some point over the past year had he known of it.

Sereen smiled. “I have to find Paull. But the serving counter is right over there.” She pointed. “Perhaps they have a drink you would like.”

“Thank you. I’ll check it out.”

As she slipped back into the noisy throng, T. G. set his still-full glass back on the table and stood, scanning the room for the counter Sereen had mentioned. It was hard for him to see beyond the crowd of giants, and after a moment he gave up and started moving in the general direction in which she had pointed. He felt like he was back in the dense forest again, weaving his way through towering pines in colorful robes and fine dresses as they moved all around him.

Finally, T. G. found the bar. He could still feel the burn in his throat from the viscid wine. Climbing into a seat at its high counter, he asked for a glass of ice water and got it. Thankful, he drank and watched the other guests as they mingled, laughed, and indulged.

As the evening wore on, many of the guests openly disappeared into the surrounding hallways and plush sleeping chambers beyond, led by beautiful women or handsome men who were obviously there by hire, not invitation. There were dozens of these so-called pleasurers available to the guests, as any good Noronian host or hostess would provide. Watching as guest after guest vanished into the bedrooms, T. G. began to count them to pass the time, losing interest after sixty-three. A woman’s voice spoke his name.

He turned to see Celestte standing close, her arm intertwined with that of a man he did not recognize. He was shorter than most, only six-foot-ten or so, and wore a midnight blue, wraparound robe. His brown hair was close cropped.

“This is Cordan Barthos,” Celestte announced. “He is President Shass’ second-in-command, so to speak. He wanted to meet you. Cordan, you know who this is.”

T. G. looked up into the man’s eyes. He had a kind face and smiled widely. “I certainly do. Prosperity, T. G. May I sit with you?”

“Sure,” T. G. nodded.

“I will leave you two to get better acquainted,” Celestte smiled, sipping anew from her goblet. “Take good care of him, Cordan,” she almost sang, her voice a gentle melody, “He is a Shass, you know.” She vanished, leaving the two men alone at the bar.

The servant at the counter placed a glass of wine before Barthos. “The world owes you a great debt, T. G.,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “I shudder to think what might’ve happened to Paull or to our great nation had you not stepped in and stopped that insane sorcerer before he could kill the president.”

“I’ve been wondering about that. I’m not sure Grodnal wasn’t finished with his attack before I acted. The way he was just standing there, and the way he talked just before …” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Struck me as weird.”

“Well, in any case, your courage shouldn’t go unrewarded.” He took another sip. “I have a proposition for you. I’ve arranged for you to take a position in the Shass administration, if you want it. Everyone thinks you are related to Paull, so no one will question your appointment. The president wants very much to improve the quality of life for the citizens of this country, and we feel that you’re just the person to head up that project.”

T.G was flattered but surprised. “Why me?”

“You carry an inherent authority, despite your stature. Paull recognized it right away and I, too, can see it. It’s in your eyes, in the way you show concern and compassion for others. You are not a common man, T. G. You are special somehow, very special, and uniquely qualified to help us help the people.”

T. G. was intrigued. Concern for the common man had not been a part of Noronian government for millennia. “Paull wants to help them?” he asked, a bit skeptical. That did not sound like the Paull of whom he had read. “How?”

“Well, that would be up to you. But we were thinking that it might help to set up some kind of localized subgovernment, one that would allow the people to govern themselves.”

“A city government?” T. G. asked, shaking his head. “I think the problems out there may be beyond the help of weekly town meetings.”

Barthos smiled. “As I said … that would be up to you to decide. The president wants to abolish the class system and open the doors of opportunity that have been sealed for too long. We’d like you to help set up a research project on the subject, see what conclusions you can put together in a period of, say, six months. Then give us a report, and we’ll go from there.”

“I’ve done my homework. Paull rose to power by removing those in his way. Some died, some were disgraced, and others haven’t been seen since going up against him. Why should I trust him to help anyone?”

Barthos looked down at his drink, then into T. G.’s eyes. “Unfortunately, what you say is true. I’m not proud of that, and neither is he, but you have to understand that such was the way things were done for thousands of years. Now things are different.”

“Different how?”

“Since his miraculous recovery, Paull’s come to realize that such a system is wrong, very wrong. He’s grateful for his life and wants to change things, to make life better for everyone. He also knows that change like this can only be carried out from within. That’s why it’s so crucial that he becomes the leader of the entire world. All of Noron must change, or the change will not last. He’s a new man, T. G., and a wise and brilliant leader. He wants to lead all of Noron into a glorious age of prosperity and peace.”

So, he’s seen the light, huh? T. G. swallowed some water and looked hard at Barthos. He got no instinctive feeling that the man was lying. Perhaps it was all true. Perhaps Shass was a changed man. Perhaps not. But miracles had been known to do that to people …

“What do you think? Will you help?” Barthos asked, hope in his tone.

T. G. looked away from the handsome man, wondering if perhaps this was a part of the “new Noron” of which Ish had spoken. Anything that brought a lasting peace and a better quality of living to all must be good, he reasoned. What better way to spread the Truth and word of Ish’s coming than by giving everyone a better world to live in? Thousands of years of oppression and suffering would end. And through his office, T. G. could even spread the truth about the Renewals that walked the planet, helping to get rid of them forever. They would have no place on a happy Noron, where the people could look to their futures with hope and get on with their own lives, rather than dwelling on the past with stand-in loved ones. Perhaps this new and kinder Noron that Paull Shass envisioned was the Awakening for which the Twelve and their followers had been waiting.

Looking into the man’s eyes once more, T. G. made a decision. “Okay,” he nodded. “It sounds like a good idea.”

Barthos extended a hand to T. G.’s shoulder and received T. G.’s in return. “I’ll send for you next week, and we’ll get started. Paull will be happy to hear of this. It’s a glorious time to be alive, T. G.” The man rose and walked away.

T. G. swirled his water a bit, clinking the ice floating there, and drank the glass dry. Smiling, he looked up to the ceiling and winked at the absent Ish. “Looks like we’re going to pull this thing off,” he spoke quietly. “I saved Paull, you healed him, and now all the pieces are felling into place. I guess you were right in choosing me, after all.” He held his empty glass out, saluting Ish, then gestured to the servant for a refill.

Surely, Ish had blessed Paull Shass, T. G. knew. Surely, this was a sign that he was to help the president lead the people. Surely, Paull, like T. G., was chosen.

Surely.