The sixth, seventh, eighth. The ninth, inhabited by the brittle cinders of suns, gaunt reminders of the universe's ultimate decadence. Those suns, however, were not burned-out matter, they were matter held in some timeless moment of atomic convulsion, as if the fury of heat and light had been sheared away. What reason? Was there here a result without cause?
But he knew there was reason. The universe was warped, curled, fighting its own irresistible stress and strain, stretching itself out of shape, discarding its own topological impossibilities into hidden pockets of space. A straight line was no less straight if warped by a gravitational field. For who or what, in that field, could determine any other straightness.
He ascended the bands, moving with a leisure he did not think was unnatural. His purpose held white and pure. He had no thought for others of his kind. Unendingly, the secrets of space channeled into his mind. He was bursting with the wonder of it.
You are young, Devil Star!
"I am young," came the unbidden thought, "and still able—" No!
He rearranged that astounding thought. He was young, deathless. He was annointed with a great destiny. Destiny? No, Devil Star, you shall arrange your destiny.
... Youth.
The fifteenth, the twentieth, the thirtieth bands. He searched them all, unhurrying, dawdling, experiencing no sense of failure. He was content.
You are young, Devil Star! You are still young!
The sub-thought was screaming at him.