18 Spring 2008
his work. Then the journalist began to talk. Initially by cajoling and flattering, as they sat together she started gently leading her subject along her own planned path. She referred to awards that he had gleaned, and mourned the passing of all the institutions involved. She quoted the famous who had been his intimates and noted their escape from the doomed world. Slowly she steered him to her course. The next pillars were easier to traverse and her host was quiet now as they negotiated the rope bridge to stand before the 'Angel.' This last massive structure had been called a self portrait and indeed the face bore a startling resemblance to the man before her. She wondered if some part of this genius had realized his own descent into madness and echoed it with the ropes and simulated fires beneath the tortured form? "So now you write." Severn’s voice was
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softer. His hand rested briefly on the statue’s plinth and a section slid open, stone grinding slowly aside. A small room was revealed containing a bed, a comfortable chair and a stack of dried supplies. A sophisticated desalinator used the remainder of the space. He threw himself onto the camp bed and scrabbled for a grimy blanket. He lay quietly as she wrote her tale, though he did not sleep, but watched warily. Most of the story had been deftly crafted days before and so it was quickly transcribed. The journalist passed over her tablet, the memory carefully wiped clean before this expedition, so that only her most recent words remained. Severn accepted it tiredly and waved his hand. "You may go," he said graciously. His companion looked at him steadily until Severn raised his eyes again. "No," she said quietly but firmly. "I am not running that course again, not until I've slept at least." Severn glow-
Š sLiterary Magazine 2008