The Dark Symphony

and streams in the desert And the parched ground shall become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water: in the habitation of dragons, where each lay, shall be grass with reeds and bushes." He was the father of the prophet. And the prophet would become the Savior.
    Another slot opened in the computer physician's belly, and a cradle containing the baby hummed out. "It's true," Strong said when he saw it, his voice a reverential whisper.
    "The doctor doesn't lie," Sparrow said. "It is a great being who—"
    "Yeah, yeah," said Dragon. "Now give him the boy."
    She handed the baby to Strong, He thought: Ye
shall not labor in vain, nor bring forth for trouble, for ye are the seed of the blessed of the Lord
.
    … THE SEED OF THE BLESSED OF THE LORD…
    "What will the name be?" Dragon asked. "We can't wait to see what he'll look like when he grows. We can't wait to give him a trait name."
    "Gideon," Strong said.
    "What is that?" Sparrow asked, tending to Blue who still lay sleeping.
    "In this book," Strong said. He handed over one of the seven volumes of the Universal Church. "Gideon was a great prophet. In three separate religions before the Universal Church—and highly regarded after the amalgamation."
    "A prophet," Dragon said. "But the name is funny." He started to laugh his rasping, hoarse laugh, but stopped abruptly when he saw the look on Strong's face. He guessed it was insanity…

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Mummified in spray-on, clear bandages, clothes clean and dried and containing a faint odor of some cleansing fluid, he tramped the corridor behind Strong. His wounds did not hurt very much, for the strange computer-doctor left over from prewar days had healed them and had laced them with pain killers. Stitches had been required in four places, the robo-doc had said, but they were self-removing and would dissolve in five days when the wounds would be completely healed. It even guaranteed that there would be no scars. But for the moment, wounds or not, they moved on with preparations for the Day.
    "Who is this Gypsy Eyes we're going to see?" he asked as he caught up with Strong who was setting a relatively fast pace with his longer, more muscular legs.
    "Just wait. You'll see."
    "I'm tired of being told to wait and that I'll see!"
    Strong, never breaking pace, gave him a perplexed look and then a half-smile of uncertainty. He wanted a docile puppet to maneuver, not someone given to outbursts of individuality. Guil's sharp tone made him slightly ill-at-ease, but he managed to contain his anger that had seethed to the surface at the seeming insubordination. "It's just that it is difficult to explain Gypsy Eyes until you meet him. He explains himself better than I ever could. You'll see." He realized his
faux pas
with the last sentence, but it was too late to retract it now.
    Guil chose to ignore it.
    They went on.
    For a time, the corridors were untouched by destruction, so perfect, indeed, that they seemed an impossibility in the midst of the utter ruin that he had seen everywhere else. The old apartments here had been made into living quarters for the Populars, and they had kept the place well. The overhead lights seemed to fulfill the duties of sunlight, encouraging snaky vines and pale flowers to grow in the carefully tended, well-weeded black earth that filled the long troughs that lined both walls and broke only for the doors to the various apartments.
    Then the hallway sloped upward like a ramp, leaving the general living areas, troughs, and flowers behind, turning in a wide arc as if they were traveling about the outer rim of a wheel and the living quarters had been spokes. There was no rubbish or rubble here either, though the walls were undecorated and painted a monotonous white that made the eyes seek every tiny fleck or stain for some relief. At the top of the ramp, Strong palmed a door open and led the way into a ten-sided room with a wall of glass and a ceiling where the ocean danced wildly blue-green.
    Guil felt his mouth open involuntarily in that age-old reaction to anything awesome. He stood in the middle of the room and stared up at the sea. It was as beautiful as anything he had ever seen in the Musician world. In fact, the Musicians would rarely to in for designing something this beautiful. Aesthetics, for them, dealt with sound, not with form and color. The colors of their buildings and clothes and fixtures were only incidental to the patterns that made up those things. But this was far more