By Rick Grimes
The device was smaller than small. And for only two hundred years’ labor, quite an accomplishment. Pride flowed through Skael like water down a thirsty throat. Having endured the doubt or decades, both his own and his race’s he now held in the bony length of his palm the mortal product of his spiritual dreams. A question with no known answer, theory upon theory, flocks of wild-goose solutions shot down by accepted laws of physics. False success and the pain of failure. Even to his own eye this now-symbol of all past efforts seemed like nothing more than a bar of some ancient plasticine. Yet it was a gem of simplicity. It had no inner workings. It needed none. It was the ultimate tool for it relied on no archaic machinery except Skael’s own-the machinery of his flesh. The power of his will. The cosmic force of desire.
Raussen stared into the pattern of the floor.
He had anticipated this for the last fifty years. The ache in his heart told him that there would be no persuasion great enough to stifle the panting breath of his friend’s curiosity.
Sadly he said, “Then you won’t reconsider?”
Skael, still giddy over his own explanations replied just a little coldly, “of course not. You know what this means to me.”
Then softy”: “There’s no real danger.”