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as he reached toward it, were a tangible thread of light that quivered in the ether.
    Cha Né could feel the mind of the man, Montague Evans—like a dream or the memory of a dream. It no longer controlled the form encasing it. Cha Né felt the man’s fear and recognized it as his own. He knew as well the price, if the thing behind the Endless Gate should be unleashed. He had no choice. Burn out the mind of the man and the cancerous presence anchored to it would be vanquished too.
    Cha Né faltered.
    He could still taste the acid tang of what he’d done to Henry Johnson, of intelligence ground down to violent madness. What if this one were different? What if he could be reasoned with? Turned back? Could be saved?
    Even as Cha Né thought it, the avatar scented his reluctance—the instance of weakness it had anticipated. In that moment, it lunged. The viscous web of its consciousness clutched at Cha Né, a cloud that howled around, within him. He felt his form fracture. He felt the drag of his body, the empty shell still squatting in the invented world.
    He’d come too far, too deep. He couldn’t remember the path back.
    Broken, leaking light, Cha Né lay buoyed upon the liquid ground. The avatar didn’t concern itself with him. It continued its creep to the Endless Gate, its milky eye still diverted, but its claws now clicking steadily again.
    Cha Né’s senses were failing. He saw the world as through a crust of ice. Yet he could still feel the umbilical cord of consciousness between himself and Montague Evans. He concentrated, focusing upon a last, hopeless transmission. He pressed through insect-thoughts, through drone-thoughts, into the screaming red of human mind below.
    Even then, they had no language in common. They were so different. Could emotion bridge that gap? Could despair? “Free it in this world and you free it in our world. Montague Evans, listen to me . . . it will devour everything . . . “
    Then the link was broken, melting into translucent dusts. If the avatar, or the mind of the man encased in it, had understood, it showed no sign. The thing continued its warped motion, until it stood before the undulating black of the gate. The surface bent in dreadful curves as the avatar reached for the hieroglyphs of the pillar. The darkness throbbed, rolled out like storm clouds. Soon the creeping thing could no longer be seen amidst the pulsing ebon swell. But where it had been, something else was emerging—condensing.
    Cha Né couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away. He could only lie still, watching.
    It had been imprisoned for countless moons—for time beyond time.
    It must be ravenous.
    Day 29
    My dreams last night were awful beyond imagination.
    I’m sure of this. Yet, I can’t remember—or only the most indistinct details. A black and vacuous gateway. A strange, bright being, which spoke to me perhaps. Terror. Joy.
    My memory is like a tattered cloth. Better to remember nothing than these half-grasped horrors, these flash-bulb grotesques that seem to be the shattered memories of a stranger.
    Of the many things that petrify me this morning, this is the worst—this terrible sense of dislocation. I feel I’ve witnessed something dreadful. Maybe I even played a part in it. But that part is a void inside me. It belongs to someone—to something—else.
    We’ve arrived at the village of the Shanopei. They would be unknown to the world were it not for Henry Johnson. Their evil superstitions would never have left this sheltered cove. Yet Johnson came, as I have come. Those superstitions have spread, as typhoid spreads.
    This is what I sought. Now that I’m here, I can’t but question my motives, and their repercussions. I told myself it was the correlations between my work and Johnson’s that drew me. These are the reasons I offered my companions. Half-truths at best. It wasn’t Johnson’s theories that brought me but his madness. No, not even that. Those revolting horrors, the cancer in his