“Vall!” Dalla’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm. “I never thought of that! And you said, ‘temporary discarnation.’ That’s just what it is. Dirzed and Olirzon and the others aren’t dead; they’re just waiting, discarnate, between physical lives. You know, in the sacred writings of one of the Fourth Level peoples it is stated: ‘Death is the last enemy.’ By proving that death is just a cyclic condition of continued individual existence, these people have conquered their last enemy.”
“Last enemy but one,” Verkan Vall corrected. “They still have one enemy to go, an enemy within themselves. Call it semantic confusion, or illogic, or incomprehension, or just plain stupidity. Like Klarnood, stymied by verbal objections to something labeled ‘political intervention.’ He’d never have consented to use the power of his Society if he hadn’t been shocked out of his inhibitions by that nuclear bomb. Or the Statisticalists, trying to create a classless order of society through a political program which would only result in universal servitude to an omnipotent government. Or the Volitionalist nobles, trying to preserve their hereditary feudal privileges, and now they can’t even agree on a definition of the term ‘hereditary.’ Might they not recover all the silly prejudices of their past lives, along with the knowledge and wisdom?”
“But ... I thought you said—” Dalla was puzzled, a little hurt.
Verkan Vall’s arm squeezed around her waist, and he laughed comfortingly.
“You see? Any sort of result is possible, good or bad. So don’t blame yourself in advance for something you can’t possibly estimate.” An idea occurred to him, and he straightened in the seat. “Tell you what; if you people at Rhogom Foundation get the problem of discarnate paratime transposition licked by then, let’s you and I go back to the Akor-Neb Sector in about a hundred years and see what sort of a mess those people have made of things.”
“A hundred years: that would be Year Twenty-Two of the next millennium. It’s a date, Vall; we’ll do it.”
They bent to light their cigarettes together at his lighter. When they raised their heads again and got the flame glare out of their eyes, the sky was purple-black, dusted with stars, and dead ahead, spilling up over the horizon, was a golden glow—the lights of Dhergabar and home.