Gods of the Greataway Read Online Free PDF

The crystal had tuned his mind to the glories of the past and he saw the apparition for what it was — a steam locomotive of the late 525th century drawing a train of endless length, unsupported by rails, which was visible through some quirk of the Greataway, some rare conjunction of dimensions. Kamaha saw the Celestial Steam Locomotive on its eternal journey through space.
    Magnificent and lordly, it rode its happentrack with a long moan from the whistle and a roaring beat from the exhaust, seeding the night sky with scarlet stars. That cold, long whistle raised the hairs on Kamaha’s neck with a nostalgia for sights and sounds he had never known — and smells, too, as the sweet scent of oil-perfumed steam filled the night with its evocation. Polished steel scintillated as the driving wheels spun, the rods rose and fell, the valve gear oscillated.
    Above one splasher, a brass plate bore the name of the Locomotive — and this name meant nothing to those who saw it, yet it meant everything.
    And the Locomotive slammed past, the stack blasting cannonfire at the sky, the whistle crying for yesterday, the wheels whirling their burden into tomorrow. Kamaha saw into the cab, just a glimpse of brass gauges and handles and levers, all swamped in a fiery glow — and of two men, one staring ahead through the spectacle plate, the other bent low and shoveling, shoveling as though the Devil himself cracked a whip around those black-clad shoulders.
    Then the carriagesfollowed, windows glowing enigmatically, the occasional glimpse of a head, a raised fist, or some other quick movement against the inner lighting. Kamaha saw this and understood it. The wheels beat a rhythmic tattoo on phantom rail-joints, the couplings creaked and screamed as the Locomotive pulled its train into a long curve and climbed toward the moon. Upward and onward it went until the smoke stained the sky like a distant nebula, and the last carriage rushed past Kamaha in a twinkling of taillights, and the sounds died into low music from long ago.
    The people stirred. They looked at one another and looked away, minds numbed by the menace of the dragon. They were scared witless. They looked toward Kamaha, their chief. They needed reassurance and leadership.
    Kamaha lay back with his eyes closed, and there was a wetness on his face that had not come from sea spray. He uttered tiny sounds. As they watched, he plucked the crystal from his ear and held it in his hand for a moment. He opened his eyes and regarded it, and now they could see that his eyes were wet, too. They backed away, their fear increasing. Kamaha smiled and blinked, and this caused a freshet of water to trickle down his cheeks. The people moaned.
    He tossed the crystal away. It fell into the grass. In two seasons it had worked its way through the fibrous layers to the underside of the island, which was now called Bo-chuzza, and one afternoon it fell free and slid into the depths of the ocean, coming to rest close by a joint in the Earth’s mantle where molten matter oozed out and forced two continents ever farther apart.
    And afterward the sound of the wind became a song for Kamaha, and the black-white backs of the guidewhales were things of wonder, and every night was a gateway to a new tomorrow. In time he grew slimmer, and he ruled his people wisely and well. Sometimes in the evenings he would glance at the stars, and the people would see again that odd moisture in his eyes — but then he would shrug, blink and grin, remember yesterday and yesteryear and the things that Man had done, and the things that Man had still to do.
    *
    “They’re TrueHumans,” said Zozula slowly. “Living out there in the middle of the ocean, for all these years. And we never knew. They’re going to be our salvation, Girl. They’re going to be the parents of the new human race. Did you see how slim they were — just like us Cuidadors? Except that fat chief, of course.”
    “They’re beautiful,” said the