BY GREG BEAR

Darwin’s Radio(Winner of the 2001 Nebula Award for Best Novel) Darwin’s Children

Dead Lines

Vitals

Blood Music

Moving Mars

and many more

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

GREGBEARis the author of more than twenty-five books, which have been translated into nineteen languages. His most recent novel is Quantico. He has been awarded two Hugos and five Nebulas for his fiction. He is married to Astrid Anderson Bear, and they are parents of two children, Erik and Alexandra. Visit the author’s website atwww.gregbear.com .

And there’s more atwww.cityattheendoftime.com .

ENTR’ACTE

This is the unexpected moment. Gods will never be predicted or judged, their motivations will never be known. Ishanaxade enjoys a brief respite before her own tasks resume. Sangmer is there. When they part, it will start again—her labor and his solitary quest. The Sleeper will take over soon. Until then the children will play, all of them, and their play is crude and primal and sweet, the stuff of which dreams will always be made.

Out on a formerly gray domain, Ginny is taking advantage of this interludium, the malleable between-world, and has shaped a vision of Thule. The snowy crags and sun-pinked clouds, the green and yellow and purple fields, the immense patches of bird-haunted heather, the shore-scattered string of ancient castles between which the children can flee and find refuge…her own place, their own adventure. Jack is content to let her lead.

Jebrassy and Tiadba find this open land enchanting, with its wide blue sky. They particularly love the lingering times between night and day, dusk and dawn. There are no stars, of course. But the sun is bright and full and warm—when clouds don’t gather and rain isn’t falling. The rain is unexpected and delightful. They have built a small hut in a hidden valley, and have learned how to gather berries and make a fire. Jebrassy, of course, is learning to hunt—after a fashion. There is usually bread on the hearth, should he return empty-handed, which is often, since there are so few animals, and those not very convincing. Tiadba is growing rounder. They wonder: What happens when a child is born between creations?

Throughout Thule the detail grows. There is a town, with its own library—and a bookstore, already filled with books and a few cats, some with burned toes and singed ears. In the bookstore, five green books appear. On the spine of each is the number—or is it a year?—1298.

One day Ginny opens the first of the five books to read, and notices that the tiniest spider is crawling across the page. She is about to brush it away, but realizes it is the first spider she has seen here. It is not part of the text, and it is not paying any attention to the words beneath its little legs. The spider between the lines.

In the library, on a windowsill, sits a small round piece of wave-tossed beach glass, the color of pale jade, refracting the changing light of each new dawn.

Then it is gone.

Memory is returning.

Some say, even now, Jack travels with Ginny on all the roads anyone can imagine. Some say you will find them on every street corner, accompanied by two or more cats, asking those who watch what they should do next—how should the puzzle pieces fall?

All stories forever, shaping all fates, until the end of time—or is one story, one life filled with love, sufficient to rekindle time and make paradise?

Waiting for the Sleeper to finally awake.

To this very day, Jack juggles. He never drops anything.

Others say—

In the beginning is the Word.

Lynnwood, Washington

September 28, 2007

TEN ZEROS

CHAPTER 1

Seattle

The city was young. Unbelievably young.

The moon rose sharp and silver-blue over a deck of soft gray clouds, and if you looked east, above the hills, where the sun would soon rise, you saw a brightness as yellow and real as natural butter. The city faced the coming day with dew cold and wet on new green grass, streaming down windows, beaded on railings, chill against swiping fingers.

Waking up in the city, no one could know how young it was and fresh; all had activities to plan, living worries to blind them, and what would it take to finally smell the blessed, cool newness, but a whiff of something other?

Everyone went about their business.

The day passed into dusk.

Hardly anyone noticed there was a difference.

A hint of loss.

With a shock that nearly made her cry out, Ginny thought she saw the old gray Mercedes in the wide side mirror of the Metro bus—stopped the next lane over, two car lengths behind, blocking traffic. The smoked rear windows, the crack in its mottled windshield—clearly visible. It’s them—the man with the silver dollar, the woman with flames in her palms. The bus’s front door opened, but Ginny stepped back into the aisle. All thoughts of getting out a stop early, of walking the next few blocks to stretch her legs and think, had vanished. The Metro driver—a plump black woman with ivory sclera and pale brown eyes, dark red lipstick, and diamonds on her incisors, still, after a day’s hard work, lightly perfumed with My Sin—stared up at

Ginny. “Someone following you, honey? I can call the cops.” She tapped the bus’s emergency button with a long pearly fingernail.

Ginny shook her head. “Won’t help. It’s nothing.”

The driver sighed and closed the door, and the bus drove on. Ginny took her seat and rested her backpack in her lap—she missed the weight of her box, but for the moment, it was someplace safe. She glanced over her shoulder through the bus’s rear window.

The Mercedes dropped back and turned onto a side street.

With her good hand, she felt in the pack’s zippered side pocket for a piece of paper. While unwrapping the filthy bandage from her hand, the doctor at the clinic had spent half an hour gently redressing her burns, injecting a big dose of antibiotics, and asking too many questions. Ginny turned to the front of the bus and closed her eyes. Felt the passengers brush by, heard the front door and the middle door open and close with rubbery shushes, the air brakes chuffing and sighing. The doctor had told her about an eccentric but kind old man who lived alone in a warehouse filled with books. The old man needed an assistant. Could be long-term. Room and board, a safe place; all legit. The doctor had not asked Ginny to trust her. That would have been too much. Then, she had printed out a map.

Because Ginny had no other place to go, she was following the doctor’s directions. She unfolded the paper. Just a few more stops. First Avenue South—south of the two huge stadiums. It was getting dark—almost eight o’clock.

Before boarding the bus—before seeing or imagining the gray Mercedes—Ginny had found an open pawnshop a block from the clinic. There, like Queequeg selling his shrunken head, she had hocked her box and the library stone within.

It was Ginny’s mother who had called it the library stone. Her father had called it a “ sum-runner.”

Neither of the names had ever come with much of an explanation. The stone—a hooked, burned-looking, come-and-go thing in a lead-lined box about two inches on a side—was supposed to be the only valuable possession left to their nomadic family. Her mother and father hadn’t told her where they had taken possession of it, or when. They probably didn’t know or couldn’t remember. The box always seemed to weigh the same, but when they slid open the grooved lid—a lid that only opened if you rotated the box in a certain way, then back again—her mother would usually smile and say, “Runner’s turned widdershins!” and with great theater they would reveal to their doubting daughter the empty interior.