“No, of course not,” he answered with wry, affectionate sarcasm, and squeezed her hand before beginning to guide her down the new channel, this one layered deep with some sort of dust that gave off a strong, musty aroma.
Teresa inhaled and finally realized what was so attractive about the smell. It was a rich pungency, and she could only hope her suspicions were true, that the fragrance wafting her way rose from the thickly lain droppings left by endless generations of flying mammals… animals who sheltered below ground, but made their living flying and hunting outside, under an open sky.
Round more bends and turns they followed the faint glimmer, until Teresa began making out the dim outlines of walls and rough columns, contrasting at first only in faint shadings of black, but then with hints of gray and sepia creeping in to lend a detail here and there. Soon she found herself no longer needing as much help from Alex, guiding her own footsteps, detecting obstacles miraculously at long range, while they were still meters away.
Sight… an amazing sensation.
It took more steep descending after that, taking care not to make some fatal error in their haste, but at last they came to a place where the floor leveled off and was littered with a carpet of small bones which crunched under their feet. Now, overhead, they could make out thousands of brown, folded forms, hanging from every crack and crevice. The denizens of the cave gave them little notice, wrapped within the cocoons of their wings, sleeping through the day.
Day. Teresa blinked at the concept, and had to hold up a hand to cut the glare reflecting directly off one last cave wall — one facing a source of light brighter than anything she had ever imagined. I’m sorry I doubted you, she told the sun, remembering how in her dream she’d presumed it could ever have a rival.
Alex removed the grimy goggles and they looked at each other, breaking out in silent grins over how filthy, horrible, battered and positively wonderful each of them looked to be alive.
They were still holding hands, purely out of habit, when they finished scrambling through the brush covering the cave entrance and stepped into a morning filled with clouds and trees and a myriad of other fine things too beautiful ever to be taken for granted again.
□ ATTENTION! You have been targeted by a very special net search routine. Please don’t purge this message! It originates with the World Association of Mahayana Buddhism, one of the great religious orders of history, and your selection to receive it was not random. This is an experiment, a melding of modern science and ancient ways in our continuing search for certain very special individuals.
Those we seek are tolkus… reincarnated beings who in lives past were saintly, enlightened men and women, or bodhi-sattvas. In the past, searches such as this were restricted to within a few days’ journey of our Himalayan monasteries. But of late, tolkus have been found all over the world, reborn into every race, every native culture and creed. It is cause for rejoicing when one is discovered and thereby helped to full awareness of his or her true powers.
Even when tolkus live their lives unannounced, forgetful of their past or even skeptical of our word, they nevertheless often become teachers or healers of great merit. These powers can be amplified though, through training.
We emphatically denounce claims that Eastern meditation traditions are simply glorified biofeedback techniques for inducing natural opiate highs. Chemical comparisons are crude and emphasize only the superficial. They miss the essential power that can be unleashed by the concentrated human mind. A power you may have refined in prior lives and that even now may be within your reach.
Our search is of great importance, now more than ever. Recent strange portents, observed all over the globe, appear to indicate a time of great struggle approaching. Like those of many other faiths, we of Mahayana Buddhism are preparing to face the danger ahead. We have sent into the Net these surrogate messengers to seek out those whose lives, courtesy, works of charity, and creditworthiness indicate they may once have been masters of enlightenment. We ask only that you meditate on the following questions.
Do you believe all beings, large and small, suffer?
Do you believe suffering ends, and that one end can come through what some call Enlightenment, a piercing of life’s veil of illusion?
Do you sense that compassion is the essence of correct action?
If these questions resonate within you, do not hesitate. Use our toll-free account to arrange an interview in person.
You may be more blessed than you remember. If so, we have faith you’ll know what to do.
• BIOSPHERE
“So tell me. What do you think of Elspeth?” Dr. Wolling asked as she poured and then passed him a cup of tea.
Nelson stirred in a spoonful of sugar, concentrating on the swirling patterns rather than meeting her eyes. “It’s… an interesting program,” he said, choosing words carefully.
She sat across from him, clattering her own cup and spoon cheerfully. Still, Nelson figured this wasn’t going to be an easy session — as if any with this teacher ever were.
“I take it you haven’t a lot of experience with auto-psych programs?”
He shook his head. “Oh, they had ’em, back home. The school counselors kept offerin’ different ones to us. But y’know the Yukon is, well…”
“A land of immigrants, yes. Tough-minded, self-reliant.” She slipped with apparent ease into a North Canuck accent. “De sort who know what dey know, and damn if any wise-guy program’s gonna tell dem what dey tinkin’, eh?”
Nelson couldn’t help but laugh. Their eyes met and she smiled, sipping her tea and looking like anybody’s grandmother. “Do you know how far back autopsych programs go, Nelson? The first was introduced back when I was just a little girl, oh, before 1970. Eliza consisted of maybe a hundred lines of code. That’s all.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. All it would do is ask questions. If you typed ‘I feel depressed,’ it would answer either, ‘So you feel depressed?’ or ‘Why do you think you feel depressed?’ Good leading questions, actually, that would get you started picking apart your own feelings, even though the program didn’t understand the word ‘depressed’ at all. If you’d typed, ‘I feel… orange,’ it would have answered, ‘Why do you think you feel orange?’
“Funny thing about it, though, Eliza was positively addictive! People used to sit for hours in front of those old-fashioned screens, pouring their hearts out to a fictitious listener, one programmed simply to say the rough equivalent of ‘Hmm? I see! Oh, do tell!’
“It was the perfect confidant, of course. It couldn’t get bored or irritated, or walk away, or gossip about you after-ward. Nobody would cast judgment on your deep dark secrets because nobody was exactly who you were talking to. At the same time, though, the rhythm of a true conversation was maintained. Eliza seemed to draw you out, insist you keep trying to probe your feelings till you found out what hurt. Some people reported major breakthroughs. Claimed Eliza changed their lives.”
Nelson shook his head. “I guess it’s the same with Elspeth. But…” He shook his head and fell silent.
“But Elspeth seemed real enough, didn’t she?”
“Nosy bitch,” he muttered into his teacup.
“Who do you mean, Nelson?” Jen asked mildly. “The program? Or me?”
He put the cup down quickly. “Uh, the program! I mean she… it… kept after me and after me, picking apart my words. Then there was that, um, free-association part…”
He recalled the smiling face in the holo tank. It had seemed so innocuous, asking him to say the first word or phrase to come to mind. Then the next, and the next. It went on for many minutes till Nelson felt caught by the flow, and words spilled forth quicker than he was aware of them. Then, when the session was over, Elspeth showed him those charts — tracing the irrefutable patterns of his subsurface thoughts, depicting a muddle of conflicting emotions and obsessions that nevertheless only began to tell his story.