虫子游戈

Author: Philip K. Dick

Translator: Buggy Yogo

Many years ago, I watched a movie titled “Next,” in which Nicolas Cage played the protagonist Chris Johnson, who has the ability to predict the future. Recently, I discovered that this movie was adapted from Philip K. Dick's novel “The Golden Man,” so I sought it out and found that, aside from some character names and the ability to predict the future, this quite brilliant novel has little connection to the film. I also couldn't find a Chinese translation of this novel online, so I decided to translate this public domain work myself. The original text I used comes from Wikisource. “The Golden Man” was first published in April 1954 in If magazine (here's an electronic copy), accompanied by illustrations by Kelly Freas, which are also included in this text. The full Chinese version is about 20,000 words and takes about an hour to read.

“Is it always this hot here?” the salesman asked. He was addressing everyone in the shabby booths by the snack counter and against the wall. He was a chubby middle-aged man with a pleasant smile, wearing a wrinkled gray suit and a sweat-soaked white shirt, with a drooping bow tie and a Panama hat.

“Only this hot in summer,” the waitress replied.

No one else moved. In one booth, a pair of teenage boys and girls were intently gazing at each other. Two workers rolled up their sleeves, revealing their dark, hairy arms, as they ate bean soup and bread rolls. There was also a weathered, thin farmer. An old businessman in a blue serge suit and vest, with a pocket watch. A taxi driver with a deep, dark rat-like face, sipping coffee. A tired woman who had just walked in and set down her burden to rest.

The salesman took out a pack of cigarettes. He curiously surveyed the dirty café, lit one, and then rested his arms on the counter, asking the man next to him, “What’s the name of this town?”

The man mumbled, “Walnut Creek.”

The salesman sipped his cola, casually pinching the cigarette between his chubby fingers. Soon, he reached into his coat and pulled out a leather wallet. He thoughtfully rummaged through cards, scraps of paper, bits of notes, tickets, endless small items, and dirty crumbs for a while, finally pulling out a photograph.

He smiled at the photo, then began to chuckle, a low, wet sound. “Look at this,” he said to the man beside him.

The man continued reading his newspaper.

“Hey, look at this,” the salesman elbowed him, then pushed the photo toward him. “What do you think of this?”

The man glanced at the photo with annoyance. It was a torso shot of a naked woman, probably about thirty-five, facing sideways, her body pale and flabby, with eight breasts.

“Ever seen anything like this?” the salesman chuckled, his small red eyes dancing. His face broke into a lewd grin as he elbowed the man again.

“I’ve seen it before,” the man said, feeling disgusted, and continued reading his newspaper.

The salesman noticed the thin old farmer was looking at the photo. He kindly handed it to him. “What do you think, old man? Quite something, right?”

The farmer examined the image seriously. He flipped it over, scrutinizing the creases on the back, then looked at the front again before tossing it back to the salesman. The photo slid off the counter, flipping several times before landing face up on the floor.

The salesman picked it up and wiped it off. He carefully, almost gently, put it back in his wallet. The waitress glanced over, her eyes flickering.

“Damn nice,” the salesman commented, blinking, “don’t you think?”

The waitress shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know. I’ve seen plenty of those near Denver. A whole colony.”

“That was taken there. Denver DCA camp¹.”

“Are there any left?” the farmer asked.

The salesman let out a harsh laugh. “Are you kidding?” He waved his hand quickly. “There aren’t any left.”

Everyone was listening. Even the high school students in the booth stopped holding hands and sat up straight, wide-eyed and fascinated.

“I saw an interesting variety near San Diego,” the farmer said, “that was some time last year. It had bat-like wings. Skin, not feathers. Wings made of skin and bone.”

The rat-faced taxi driver interjected, “What’s that? Detroit has one with two heads. I saw it at the fair.”

“Alive?” the waitress asked.

“No. They euthanized it.”

“In sociology class,” the high school boy said loudly, “we’ve seen videos of many varieties—winged ones from the South, big-headed ones found in Germany, a terrifying-looking one with some kind of horns, like a bug. And…”

“The most annoying ones,” the old businessman said, “are the British ones. They hid in coal mines. They weren’t discovered until last year.” He shook his head. “Forty years, breeding underground in coal mines. Almost a hundred of them. Survivors of a population that hid underground during the war.”

“They found a new variety in Sweden,” the waitress said, “I read about it. They say it can control thoughts from a distance. There are only a few of them. DCA got there quickly.”

“That’s a variant of the New Zealand type,” a worker said, “it can read thoughts.”

“Reading and controlling are two different things,” the businessman said, “every time I hear about such things, I’m glad there’s DCA.”

“They found a variety when the war just ended,” the farmer said, “in Siberia. It had the ability to control objects—telekinesis. The Soviet DCA caught it right away. No one remembers it anymore.”

“I remember that,” the businessman said, “I was a kid then. I remember because it was the first deeve I ever heard of. My father called me into the living room and told me and my siblings. We were building a house at the time, and that was when DCA was checking everyone, stamping their arms. He raised his twisted, thin wrist due to age. “I got stamped here, sixty years ago.”

“Now they do prenatal checks directly,” the waitress said. She trembled. “There’s one in San Francisco this month. The first in over a year. They thought they were all gone around here.”

“The numbers have been decreasing,” the taxi driver said, “San Fran² isn’t too bad, not like some places, not like Detroit.”

“They can still catch ten to fifteen in Detroit a year,” the high school boy said, “there’s still a lot of reserves around there. Even with robot markings, people still go in.

“What variety is that?” the salesman asked, “the one they found in San Francisco.”

The waitress waved her hand. “Common type. The kind without toes, hunched over, with big eyes.”

“Night type,” the salesman said.

“It’s hiding. They say it’s three years old. She had that doctor forge a DCA certificate. An old friend of the family.”

The salesman finished his cola. He sat there bored, playing with his cigarette, listening to the buzz of conversation he had sparked. The high school boy leaned excitedly toward the girl across from him, trying to impress her with his stock of knowledge. The thin farmer and businessman huddled together, reminiscing about the past, the last years of the war, before the first decade of reconstruction. The taxi driver and two workers were exchanging their own strange anecdotes.

The salesman then caught the waitress's attention. “I guess,” he said thoughtfully, “that San Fran one must have caused quite a stir. Such things happen so close by.”

“Yeah,” the waitress said quietly.

“The Bay Area hasn’t been really affected,” the salesman continued, “you’ll never catch them there.”

“Never,” the waitress suddenly moved. “Not one in this area. Never.” She picked up the dirty plates from the counter and walked to the back.

“Never?” the salesman asked, surprised. “Not a single deeve on this side of the Bay?”

“None. Not a single one.” She disappeared into the kitchen, where a fry cook in a white apron with tattoos on his wrists stood by his stove. Her voice was a bit too loud, a bit too shrill and affected. This made the farmer suddenly stop talking and look up.

Silence fell like a curtain. All sounds ceased. They all stared at their food; the atmosphere suddenly tense and ominous.

“Not a single one around here,” the taxi driver said, his voice loud but not directed at anyone in particular. “Never one.”

“Of course,” the salesman agreed in a calm tone, “I just…”

“You need to get this straight,” a worker said.

The salesman blinked. “Of course, brother. Of course.” He nervously fumbled in his pocket. A 25-cent and a 10-cent coin clinked as they fell to the ground; he hurried to pick them up. “No offense intended.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then the high school boy spoke up, realizing this was the first time no one was talking. “I heard some things,” he said eagerly, his tone serious. “Someone said they saw something near Johnson Farm that looked like one of those…”

“Shut up.” the businessman said without turning around.

The boy's face turned red, slumping back in his seat. His voice trembled and then faded away. He hurriedly looked down at his hands, swallowing hard in displeasure.

The salesman handed the waitress the money for the cola. “Which way to get to San Fran the fastest?” he asked. But the waitress had already turned her back.

The people at the counter were all staring at their food. They didn’t look up. They all ate in the cold silence. They wore expressions of hostility and unfriendliness, focused on their food.

The salesman picked up his bulging suitcase, pushed open the screen door, and stepped into the blazing sunlight. He walked toward his old 1978 Buick parked a few meters away. A traffic cop in a blue shirt stood in the shade of the awning, lazily chatting with a young woman in a yellow silk dress; the yellow silk dress was already soaked with sweat, clinging to her slender body.

The salesman paused before getting into his car. He waved at the cop. “Say, you know this town pretty well, right?”

The cop glanced at the salesman’s wrinkled gray suit, bow tie, and sweat-stained shirt; and the out-of-state license plate. “What’s up?”

“I’m looking for Johnson Farm,” the salesman said, “I’m here to see him about a lawsuit.” He walked toward the cop, holding out a small white card between his fingers. “I’m his lawyer… from the New York union. Can you tell me how to get there? I haven’t been here in years.”

Nate Johnson looked up at the midday sun, seeing it at its peak. He sat on the lowest step of the porch, arms spread wide, a yellowed toothpick between his teeth; he was flexible, lean and fit, wearing a red checkered shirt and canvas jeans; he had a pair of strong hands; his iron-gray hair was still thick, despite having lived a busy life for sixty-five years.

He was watching the children play. Joan was running and laughing in front of him, her chest rising and falling beneath her sweat-soaked shirt, her black hair flowing behind her. She was sixteen, bright-eyed, with strong, straight legs, her slender young body slightly leaning forward under the weight of two horseshoes. Behind her was Dave, fourteen, with bright teeth and black hair, a handsome young lad, a son to be proud of. Dave caught up with his sister, passed her, and reached the stake in the distance. He stood there waiting, legs apart, hands on his hips, casually holding his two horseshoes. Joan rushed toward him, panting.

“Come on!” Dave shouted, “you throw first. I’ll wait for you.”

“Can you throw them farther?”

“Then I can throw them closer.”

Joan dropped one horseshoe, then grabbed the other with both hands, her eyes fixed on the distant stake. She bent her flexible body, sliding one leg back, arching her back. She closed one eye and carefully aimed, then skillfully tossed the horseshoe. With a clang, the horseshoe hit the stake, spun around it, then bounced off, rolling to the side and kicking up a cloud of dust.

“Not bad,” Nate Johnson acknowledged from the step, “but too hard, relax a bit.” As the girl’s glimmering body aimed and threw again, he puffed out his chest with pride. Two strong and handsome children were playing under the blazing sun, soon to grow up.

Then there was Chris.

Chris stood beside the porch, arms crossed. He didn’t play. He was watching. He had been standing there since Dave and Joan started playing, his delicate face wearing a half-focused, half-indifferent expression, as if his gaze passed through them, looking far beyond them, toward the fields, barns, riverbeds, and rows of cedar trees in the distance.

“Come play, Chris!” Joan called out, as she and Dave crossed the field to pick up their horseshoes. “Don’t you want to play?”

No, Chris didn’t want to play. He never played. He entered a world of his own, a world none of them could enter. He never participated in anything, whether games, chores, or family activities. He was always alone, keeping his distance, aloof and indifferent. Seeing through everyone and everything—until something made a sound, bringing him back temporarily, re-entering their world for a brief moment.

Nate Johnson reached out, tapping his pipe on the step. He took more tobacco from his leather pouch and refilled it while keeping his eyes on his eldest son. Now Chris was revitalized, walking toward the fields. He walked slowly, arms calmly crossed, as if he had temporarily descended from his world into theirs. Joan didn’t see him; she had turned away, preparing to throw.

“Hey,” Dave said in surprise, “Chris is here.”

Chris walked toward his sister, then stopped and extended his hand. He was tall and imposing, expressionless, appearing very calm. Joan uncertainly handed him a horseshoe. “Do you want this? Do you want to play?”

Chris said nothing. He slightly bent forward, his graceful body forming a flexible arc, then moved his arm with such speed that it seemed blurred. The horseshoe flew up, hitting the distant stake, then spinning wildly around it. A perfect toss.

Dave’s mouth turned down. “That’s so annoying.”

“Chris,” Joan scolded, “you didn’t play fair.”

No, Chris didn’t play fair. He had watched for half an hour—then stepped out to throw once. A perfect toss, a perfect ring.

“He never makes mistakes,” Dave complained.

Chris stood there expressionless, like a golden statue under the midday sun. His golden hair, skin, bare arms, and legs covered in a light layer of golden fuzz…

Suddenly, he stiffened. Nate sat up abruptly. “What’s wrong?” he roared.

Chris quickly turned around, a clear alarm signal emitted from his body. “Chris!” Joan said sternly, “what…”

Chris dashed forward. He was like a burst of energy, leaping across the field, over the fence, into the barn, and out the other side. When he landed on the dry creek bed between the cedars, his flying figure seemed to skim over the hay. A flash of gold—and he disappeared. Completely vanished. Not a sound. Not a movement. He had completely melted into the landscape.

“What was that this time?” Joan asked tiredly. She walked over to her father, seeking shade. Sweat was beading on her smooth neck and above her lips; her shirt was soaked, striped with moisture. “What did he see?”

“He was chasing something,” Dave said, walking up.

Nate muttered, “Maybe. Hard to say.”

“I think I’d better tell Mom not to save a place for him,” Joan said, “he might not come back.”

Anger and helplessness weighed on Nate Johnson. No, he wouldn’t come back. Not for dinner, maybe not tomorrow… or the day after. God knows how long he would be gone, or where he would go, or why. He went off alone, to some place. “If I thought this was useful,” Nate said, “I’d send you two to chase him. But it’s not…”

He paused. A car was driving down the dirt road toward the farmhouse. An old, dusty Buick. Behind the steering wheel sat a red-faced, chubby man in a gray suit; as the car rattled to a stop and the engine noise faded, he happily waved at them.

“Good afternoon,” the man nodded, getting out of the car. He cheerfully adjusted his hat in greeting. He was middle-aged, looking friendly and kind. He was sweating profusely as he crossed the dry ground toward the porch. “Maybe you folks can help me out.”

“What do you want?” Nate Johnson asked hoarsely. He was scared. He kept an eye on the creek bed, silently praying. God, he would just leave. Joan was breathing rapidly, turning sharp. She was frightened. Dave looked expressionless but pale. “Who are you?” Nate Johnson asked sternly.

“My name is Baines. George Baines.” The man extended his hand, but Johnson ignored it. “Maybe you’ve heard of me. I own the Pacific Development Company. Those little blast-proof houses outside of town are all built by us, the little round houses you see when you come from Lafayette along the main highway.

“What do you want?” Johnson struggled to steady his hands. He had never heard of this man, but he had indeed noticed that housing area. It couldn’t have been overlooked—it was a large cluster of ugly pillbox houses crowded along both sides of the highway. Baines looked like the kind of person who would own those houses. But what was he doing here?

“I’ve bought some land along this road,” Baines explained, rattling a neat stack of documents. “This is the deed, but I’m in trouble if I can’t find it.” He smiled kindly. “I know it’s somewhere nearby, on this side of the highway. The county recorder’s office staff said it’s about a mile on this side of that hill. But I’m really not good at reading maps.”

“That’s not nearby,” Dave interjected, “there are only farms around here. No land for sale.”

“That’s just a farm, kid,” Baines said kindly, “I’m buying it for myself and my wife. So we can settle down.” He wrinkled his pug-like nose. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m not going to build any housing developments around here.” It’s completely for my own use. An old farmhouse, twenty acres, a water pump, and a few oak trees…”

“Let me see that deed,” Johnson grabbed the stack of documents; just as Baines blinked in surprise, he quickly flipped through them. His expression grew serious, then he handed them back. “What are you doing? The land on this deed is fifty miles away.”

“Fifty miles!” Baines exclaimed, dumbfounded. “You’re kidding? But that staff told me…”

Johnson stood up. He was taller than the chubby man. His physique was top-notch—and he was very suspicious. “Staff my ass. You get back to your car and drive away from here. I don’t know what you want to do or what your purpose is for being here, but I want you off my land.”

Something glinted in Johnson’s fist. It was a lash-tube, glinting ominously in the midday sun. Baines saw it—and swallowed hard. “No offense intended, sir.” He nervously stepped back. “You folks are really quick to anger. Relax, okay?”

Johnson said nothing. He tightened his grip on the lash-tube, waiting for the chubby man to leave.

But Baines hesitated. “Listen, brother. I’ve been driving in this furnace for five hours, looking for my damn land. You don’t mind if I use your facilities, do you?”

Johnson looked at him, suspicion written all over his face. That suspicion gradually turned into disgust. He shrugged. “Dave, take him to the bathroom.”

“Thanks,” Baines said gratefully, smiling. “And if it’s not too much trouble, maybe a glass of water. I’d be happy to pay you.” He smiled, with a “you know what I mean” expression. “Never let city folks take anything, huh?”

“God,” Johnson turned away in disgust, and the chubby man followed his son into the house.

“Dad,” Joan whispered. As soon as Baines entered, she hurried to the porch, her eyes filled with fear. “Dad, do you think he…”

Johnson wrapped his arm around her. “Just hold on, he’ll be leaving soon.”

The girl’s dark eyes sparkled with unspoken fear. “Every time someone from the water company comes, or the tax collector, or some drifter, a kid, anyone; as long as someone comes here, I feel a sting—right here.” She placed her hand on her chest, covering her heart. “It’s been like this for thirteen years. How much longer can we hold on? How long?”

The man named Baines walked out of the bathroom, full of gratitude. Dave Johnson stood quietly at the door, his body stiff, his young face expressionless.

“Thank you, kid,” Baines sighed, “now where can I get a cold drink?” He looked expectantly, licking his thick lips. “You drive around looking for a place to take a dump, then some red-hot realtor catches you…”

Dave walked toward the kitchen. “Mom, this guy wants a drink. Dad said he can have one.”

Dave turned around. Baines caught sight of the mother; she had gray hair, a small frame, and was walking toward the sink with a glass; her face was pale, haggard, and expressionless.

Then Baines hurried out of the room, through the hallway. He passed a bedroom, opened a door, and found a closet in front of him. He quickly turned back, ran through the living room, into the dining room, then into another bedroom. In an instant, he had toured the entire house.

He looked out through a window into the backyard, where there was a rusty truck wreck, an entrance to an underground shelter, some tin cans, some scrabbling chickens, a dog sleeping in the shadows, and a few old car tires.

He found a way out. He quietly opened the door and stepped outside. There was no one in sight, just the barn—a leaning old wooden structure. In the distance were cedar trees and a creek. There used to be an outdoor toilet here.

Baines cautiously moved around this side of the house. He probably had about thirty seconds. He closed the bathroom door; the boy would think he had gone back in. Baines looked through a window into the house, where there was a large closet filled with old clothes, boxes, and bundles of magazines.

He turned and started to walk back. He reached a corner of the house, about to turn.

Nate Johnson’s imposing figure suddenly appeared, blocking his path. “Well, Baines. You asked for this.”

A burst of pink light exploded. The blinding flash made the sun dim. Baines jumped back, reaching for his coat pocket. The edge of the flash caught up with him; he was struck by its force, half-falling to the ground. His suit shield absorbed the energy, dissipating it, but the force still rattled his teeth; for a moment, he twitched like a marionette. The darkness around him gradually faded. He could feel the shield grid emitting white light as it absorbed the energy and struggled to control it.

He pulled out his lash-tube—but Johnson had no shield. “You’re under arrest,” Baines said, his words slurred but his tone cold, “put down your lash-tube and raise your hands. And call your family over.” He gestured with the lash-tube. “Be quick, Johnson.”

The lash-tube shook and then slipped from Johnson’s fingers. “You’re still alive,” fear surged on his face, “then you must…”

Dave and Joan appeared. “Dad!”

“Come over here,” Baines ordered, “where’s your mom?”

Dave shook his head numbly. “Inside.”

“Find her and bring her over.”

“You’re DCA,” Nate Johnson whispered.

Baines didn’t answer. He was tugging at the loose muscles in his neck, as if doing something. He pulled out a contact microphone from between his double chin, its wire glinting; then he put it in his pocket. The sound of engines came from the dirt road, the smooth roar of machines quickly growing louder. Two teardrop-shaped black metal objects descended, landing beside the house. A crowd of people poured out, all wearing deep gray-green uniforms of government officers. In the sky, swarms of black dots were descending, like ugly clouds of flies obscuring the sun, while they were releasing personnel and equipment. They floated down slowly.

“He’s not here,” Baines said to the first person approaching him, “he escaped. Notify Weston at the lab.”

“We’ve sealed off the area.”

Baines turned to Nate Johnson—who stood there, bewildered, silent, and confused, with his children beside him. “How did he know we were coming?” Baines asked sternly.

“I don’t know,” Johnson mumbled, “he just… knows.”

“Telepathy?”

“I don’t know.”

Baines shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough. A control squad has surrounded this place. No matter what he can do, he can’t run away. Unless he can dematerialize himself.”

“When you… if you catch him, what will you do?” Joan asked, her voice hoarse.

“Study him.”

“And then kill him?”

“That depends on the lab’s assessment. If you can give me more information, I can predict better.”

“We can’t tell you anything. We don’t know more.” The girl’s voice grew louder, filled with despair. “He doesn’t talk.”

Baines jumped. “What?”

“He doesn’t talk, he never talks to us. Never.”

“How old is he?”

“Eighteen.”

“No communication.” Baines was sweating profusely. “Eighteen years and you’ve never spoken? Does he have any way of communicating? Sign language? Code?”

“He… ignores us. He eats here, stays with us. Sometimes he plays with us when we’re playing. Or sits next to us. He sometimes disappears for days. We never figured out what he was doing… or where he went. He sleeps in the barn—alone.”

“Is he really golden-colored?”

“Yes, skin, eyes, hair, nails. All of it.”

“And he’s tall? Muscular?”

After a while, the girl answered. A strange emotion stirred her haggard face, a momentary glow. “He’s incredibly beautiful. A god descended to earth.” Her lips quivered. “You won’t be able to find him. He can do some things, things you’ll never understand. His power surpasses your limited…”

“Do you think we can’t catch him?” Baines frowned. “More teams are landing. You’ve never seen how the control squad operates. We’ve been solving all loopholes for sixty years. If he can get away, it would be the first time…”

Baines suddenly stopped. Three people were quickly approaching the porch, two in green police uniforms; the other was in between them, walking silently, light-footed, a tall figure that towered over them, slightly glowing.

“Chris!” Joan exclaimed.

“We’ve got him,” one officer said.

Baines nervously stroked his lash-tube. “Where? How did you catch him?”

“He surrendered,” the officer replied, his voice filled with awe. “He walked toward us voluntarily. Look at him. He’s like a metal statue. Like some kind of… god.”

The golden figure stopped beside Joan. Then it slowly turned, appearing very calm; it turned toward Baines.

“Chris!” Joan shouted, “where have you been?”

Baines had the same thought. He temporarily pushed it aside. “Is the plane ready?” he asked hurriedly.

“Ready,” an officer replied.

“Good.” Baines strode past them, down the steps, onto the muddy field. “Let’s go. I want to take him directly to the lab.” He scrutinized the figure standing calmly between the two officers. Next to him, they looked small, awkward, and unpleasant. Like dwarfs… what did Joan say? A god descended to earth. Baines walked angrily. “Let’s go.” He muttered rudely, “this could be a tough nut; we’ve never dealt with one like this before. We don’t know what it can do.”

The observation room was empty, with only one figure sitting. The walls, floor, and ceiling were bare. The steady, blinding white light ruthlessly filled every corner of the observation room. Near the top of the far wall was a narrow slit, an observation window to see inside the observation room.

The sitting figure was quiet. Since the observation room gate closed, since the heavy bolt fell from outside, since rows of illuminated faces of technicians took their positions in front of the observation window, he hadn’t moved. He stared down at the floor, leaning forward, hands tightly clasped, expression calm, almost devoid of emotion. He hadn’t moved a muscle for four hours.

“How’s it going?” Baines asked, “what have you learned?”

Weston grunted in annoyance. “Not much. If we can’t figure him out in forty-eight hours, we’ll just euthanize him. We can’t take risks.”

“You’re afraid he’s a Tunisian type.” Baines said. He was afraid too. They had previously discovered ten such variants, living in the ruins of that abandoned little town. Their survival method was simple: they killed and absorbed other life forms, then mimicked and replaced them. They were called chameleons. Sixty lives were lost to eradicate them. Sixty top experts, all trained DCA fighters.

“Any clues?” Baines asked.

“He’s very different. This will be difficult.” Weston flipped through a stack of information papers. “This is the complete report, all the materials we got from Johnson and his family. We used mental agents to get them to confess everything, then sent them home. Eighteen years… no verbal communication. Yet he seems fully developed. Matured by thirteen—his life cycle is shorter and faster than ours. But why such thick hair? Why a body covered in golden fuzz? Like a gilded Roman statue.”

“Has the analysis lab’s report come in? You must have scanned his brainwaves.”

“His brain patterns have been fully scanned. But they need time to map it out. We’ve been running around like crazy, while he just sits there!” Weston poked the observation window with a thick, short finger. “We easily caught him. He can’t have strong abilities, right? But I want to know what that ability is. Before we euthanize him.”

“Maybe we should keep him alive until we figure it out.”

“Euthanize at forty-eight hours.” Weston stubbornly repeated. “No matter if we figure it out or not. I don’t like him. He gives me the creeps.”

Weston stood there, nervously chewing on a cigar; he was a red-haired, chubby-faced man, stocky, with a chest like a barrel, and a pair of cold, shrewd eyes sunken in his hard, ruthless face. Ed Weston was the head of the DCA North American branch. But now he was worried. On his fierce face, his small eyes darted back and forth, flashing with fearful gray.

“You think,” Baines said slowly, “this is the one?”

“I always thought so,” Weston said, “I have to think so.”

“I mean…”

“I understand what you mean.” Weston paced between the research table, technicians on benches, equipment, and buzzing computers. There were also the noisy tape slots and discussions of research docking. “This thing has lived with his family for eighteen years, and they don’t understand it at all. They don’t know what abilities it has. They know what it can do, but don’t know how it does it?”

“What can it do?”

“It knows some things.”

“What kind of things?”

Weston pulled his lash-tube from his belt and tossed it onto a table. “Take it.”

“What?”

“Take it.” Weston signaled, then an observation window slid back an inch. “Shoot him.”

Baines blinked. “You said forty-eight hours.”

Weston cursed, grabbed the lash-tube, aimed it at the sitting figure’s back through the window, and pulled the trigger.

A dazzling pink flash lit up. An energy cloud exploded in the center of the observation room. It shone brightly, then shrank into dark ashes.

“God!” Baines gasped, “you…”

He was speechless. The figure was no longer sitting. At the moment Weston shot, it moved with a speed so fast it was hard to see, away from the explosion, to a corner of the observation room. Now it was slowly walking back, expressionless, still immersed in thought.

“This is the fifth time,” Weston said, putting away the lash-tube. “Last time, Jamison and I shot together. Missed. He knew exactly when the energy beam would hit and where.”

Baines and Weston exchanged glances. They were both thinking the same thing. “But telepathy doesn’t let him know where they will hit,” Baines said, “maybe when, but not where. Can you know in advance where you’ll hit?”

“I can’t,” Weston replied flatly, “I shoot quickly, almost randomly.” He frowned. “Random shooting. We need to test this.” He waved for a group of technicians to come over. “Send a construction team here. Right away.” He grabbed paper and pencil to start sketching.

During the construction, in the lobby outside the lab—that was the central lounge of the DCA building, Baines met his fiancée.

“How’s work?” she asked. Anita Ferris was tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes, her demeanor mature and graceful. She looked to be in her late twenties, a charming and capable woman. She wore a metallic foil dress and shawl, with red and black stripes on the sleeves, the emblem of Class A. Anita was the head of the Language Bureau, a top government coordinator. “Anything interesting this time?”

“A lot,” Baines led her out of the lobby, into the dim bar booth. Music played softly in the background, a mathematically constructed pattern of varied changes. In the dimness, faint figures moved skillfully between tables, quiet and efficient robot waiters.

As Anita sipped her Tom Collins³, Baines briefly introduced their findings.

“What are the odds,” Anita asked slowly, “that he’s built some kind of deflection cone? There was once a variety that could directly warp the surrounding environment through mental ability. No tools. Directly manipulating matter with the mind.”

“Telekinesis?” Baines said, tapping the table nervously. “I doubt it. This thing has the ability to predict, not control. He can’t block energy beams, but he can definitely dodge them.”

“Is he jumping between molecules?”

Baines wasn’t amused. “This is serious. We’ve been dealing with these things for sixty years—longer than either of us has been alive. There are now eighty-seven types of anomalous species, true mutants capable of self-reproduction, not just freaks. This is the eighty-eighth. We’ve been able to counter each one of them. But this one…”

“Why are you so worried about this one?”

“First, it’s already eighteen. That alone is unbelievable. Its family has managed to hide it for so long.”

“The women around Denver are older. Those with…”

“They’re in government concentration camps. Some people are considering letting them breed for some industrial purpose. We’ve stopped euthanasia for many years. But Chris Johnson has lived outside our control. Those things in Denver have been under scrutiny all along.”

“Maybe he’s harmless. You always assume deeves are a threat. He might even be useful. Some people think those women might have some use. Maybe this thing has something to advance the race.”

“Which race? Not humanity. That’s the old story of ‘the operation was successful, but the patient died.’ If we introduce a mutant to advance our development, then those mutants will inherit the Earth, not us. Mutants will survive for their own interests. Don’t think we can temporarily lock them up and expect them to serve us forever. If they are indeed superior to Homo sapiens, they will eventually win in a fair competition. To survive, we must have an extra trump card from the start.”

“In other words, when the super-intelligent appear, we’ll know—by definition, that will be someone we can’t euthanize.”

“Pretty much.” Baines replied. “As long as we assume there exists a super-intelligent, maybe just a Homo sapiens with special abilities, a refined human lineage has emerged.”

“Neanderthals might have thought Cro-Magnons were just a refined lineage, just with slightly more advanced abilities like conceptual symbols and flint knapping. From your description, this thing isn’t just a simple refinement, but a more thorough change.”

“This thing,” Baines said slowly, “has predictive abilities, so it has survived until now. It can handle situations better than you or I. If we were in that observation room, with energy beams aimed at us, how long do you think we’d last? In a sense, it has the ultimate survival ability. If it can always accurately…”

The speaker on the wall crackled to life. “Baines, the lab needs you. Get out of the bar and come up quickly.”

Baines pushed back his chair and stood up. “You come too. You might be interested to see what Weston has thought of.”

A group of high-ranking DCA officials stood in a circle, all gray-haired middle-aged men, listening to a thin young man in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves explaining a delicate cube made of metal and plastic. This cube was placed at the center of the observation platform, with a row of ugly barrel mouths protruding from it, concealed in a complex web of interwoven wires.

“This,” the young man said cheerfully, “is the first real test. It will fire randomly—almost the maximum randomness we can achieve, at least like this. Heavy balls will be thrown up by a gust of air, then fall freely, triggering a relay. They can fall in almost any pattern. This thing will fire based on their patterns. Each drop will create a new configuration of timing and position. There are ten tubes in total, each of which will keep moving.”

“No one knows how they fire?” Anita asked.

“No one knows,” Weston rubbed his thick hands. “Telepathy won’t help him, can’t help him deal with this.”

As the cube was being placed in position, Anita walked to the observation window. She gasped. “Is that him?”

“What’s wrong?” Baines asked.

Anita’s cheeks flushed. “Why, I thought it would be a… a monster. Goodness, he’s beautiful! Like a golden statue, like a god!”

Baines laughed. “He’s only eighteen, Anita, too young for you.”

The woman was still peering through the observation window. “Look at him. Eighteen? I don’t believe it.”

Chris Johnson sat on the floor of the observation room, in a contemplative posture—his head bowed, arms crossed, legs folded beneath him. Under the glaring light of the overhead bulb, his strong body shimmered and rippled, like a piece of golden fuzz glistening in the light.

“Very pretty, isn’t it?” Weston murmured. “Okay, let’s start.”

“You’re going to kill him?” Anita asked sternly.

“We’re trying.”

“But he…” she stopped uncertainly. “He’s not a monster. He’s different from the others, those ugly monsters with two heads, or those bugs; and those terrifying creatures from Tunisia.”

“Then what is he?” Baines asked.

“I don’t know. But you can’t just kill him. That’s too terrible!”

The cube was activated. The firing tubes suddenly moved, silently changing positions. Three retracted, disappearing into the body of the cube. The others extended. They moved quickly and efficiently into position, then suddenly fired without warning.

A stunning energy sprayed out in a fan shape, pouring from the observation window into the observation room, its complex pattern changing every moment—angles twisting, speeds switching, fast enough to blur, dazzling the eyes.

The golden figure moved. He darted back and forth, skillfully dodging the explosive energy burning around him. A surging cloud of dust obscured his figure, making him disappear into a haze of crackling flames and smoke.

“Stop!” Anita shouted. “Oh God, you’ll destroy him!”

The observation room became a hell of energy. The figure had completely vanished. Weston waited for a moment, then nodded to the technicians operating the cube. They pressed the directional button, slowing the firing ports and then shutting them off. Some firing ports retracted into the cube. Everyone fell silent. The components of the cube ceased their roaring.

Chris Johnson was still alive. He emerged from the settling thick dust, darkened, as if scorched. But he was unhurt. He had dodged every beam of energy. He weaved between the energy beams as they shot at him, like a dancer leaping on the tip of a sword engulfed in pink flames. He survived.

“No,” Weston whispered, trembling, his expression serious. “It’s not telepathy. These are random. Not a pre-arranged pattern.”

The three looked at each other, their eyes filled with astonishment and fear. Anita’s body trembled. She was pale, her blue eyes wide open. “What is it?” she whispered. “What is it? What abilities does he have?”

“He’s an excellent guesser,” Weston speculated.

“He’s not guessing,” Baines replied, his voice hoarse. “Don’t deceive yourself—that’s the point.”

“No, he’s not guessing,” Weston nodded slowly. “He knows. He predicted every attack. I want to know… can he make mistakes? Can he make errors?”

“We caught him,” Baines pointed out.

“You said he came back voluntarily,” Weston’s face showed a strange expression. “Did he come back after the control squad surrounded him?”

Baines jumped up. “Yes, after.”

“He couldn’t break through the control squad, so he came back,” Weston said with a bitter smile. “The control squad must be perfect. It should be.”

“If there’s a loophole,” Baines muttered, “he would know… and then slip through it.”

Weston called a team of armed guards over. “Get him out, take him to the euthanasia room.”

Anita screamed. “Weston, you can’t…”

“He’s too far ahead of us. We can’t compete with him.” Weston’s eyes were filled with despair. “We can only guess what will happen, and he knows. For him, the future is certain. But I don’t think this will help him avoid euthanasia. The entire euthanasia room will fill up instantly. Instantly fill with gas, completely fill. He impatiently signaled the guards. “Go, get him now. Don’t waste time.”

“Can we do that?” Baines said thoughtfully.

The guards positioned themselves by a gate in the observation room. The tower control personnel carefully slid open the gate. The first two guards cautiously entered, their lash-tubes ready.

Chris stood in the center of the observation room. As the guards slowly approached him, he had his back to them. For a moment, he remained silent, motionless. More guards entered the observation room, then fanned out. Then…

Anita screamed. Weston cursed. The golden figure suddenly turned, leaping forward with a speed so fast it was a blur. He darted past three rows of guards, through the gate, and into the hallway.

“Catch him!” Baines roared.

The guards opened fire. As the figure dashed up the ramp among them, energy bursts illuminated the entire corridor.

“Useless,” Weston said calmly. “We can’t hit him.” He pressed one button, then another. “But this might be a bit useful.”

“What…” Baines began to speak, but the darting figure suddenly charged at him, knocking him to the side. The figure zipped past him. It ran effortlessly, expressionless; it dodged and weaved between the surrounding energy beams.

In an instant, the golden face appeared right in front of Baines. It passed by him, disappearing into a side hallway. The guards chased after it, kneeling to fire, shouting orders fiercely. Inside the building, heavy guns roared. All gates slid into position, sealing off the escape corridor completely.

“God.” Baines stood up, panting, “it can only run, can’t it do anything else?”

“I’ve ordered the building sealed,” Weston said, “there’s no way out. No one can enter, no one can leave. Even if he escaped in this building… he can’t get out.”

“If there’s an exit that hasn’t been noticed, he would know,” Anita pointed out, trembling.

“We won’t overlook any exits. If we can catch him once, we can catch him a second time.”

A messenger robot entered. It respectfully conveyed a message to Weston. “Information from the analysis lab, sir.”

Weston tore open the seal. “Now we can know how it thinks.” His hands trembled. “Maybe we can find its blind spots. Maybe it can think ahead of us, but that doesn’t mean it’s invulnerable. It can only predict the future—it can’t change the future. If the only thing ahead is death, its ability can’t…”

Weston’s voice trailed off. After a moment, he handed the information paper to Baines.

“I’m going to the bar downstairs,” Weston said, “to have a good drink.” His face turned lead-gray. “I just want to say, I sincerely hope humanity doesn’t have to compete with it.”

“What’s the analysis result?” Anita asked impatiently, leaning over Baines’s shoulder to look at the report. “How does it think?”

“It doesn’t think,” Baines said, handing the information paper back to his boss. “It doesn’t think at all. It has almost no frontal lobe. It’s not human—it doesn’t use symbols. It’s just an animal.”

“An animal,” Weston said, “but with highly developed physical functions. It’s not a more advanced human, not human at all.”

In the corridors of the DCA building, guards and equipment moved up and down, bustling noisily. Large numbers of officers flooded into the building, taking positions beside the guards. They checked every corridor and room one by one. The golden Chris Johnson would eventually be found and cornered.

“We’ve always worried about a mutant with super intelligence,” Baines mused, “one that looks at us like we look at gorillas. It would have a bulging skull, telepathic abilities, a perfect language system, ultimate symbolic expression and calculation abilities. It would be a continuation of our evolutionary path. A better human.”

“He acts on reflexes,” Anita said, surprised. She took the analysis results, sitting at a table, focusing on reading. “Reflexes—like a lion. A golden lion.” She pushed the information paper aside, a strange expression appearing on her face. “The lion god.”

“A beast,” Weston corrected sharply, “you should say a golden beast.”

“He runs fast, and that’s it. Doesn’t use tools. He won’t create anything or use anything outside of himself. He just stands there waiting for the right moment, then runs like crazy.”

“This is worse than anything we anticipated,” Weston said. His thick face had turned pale. He stood there dejectedly, like an old man; his rough hands trembled, showing no confidence. “Replaced by an animal! Something that can only run and hide. Something without language!” He spat angrily. “That’s why they can’t communicate with it. We’re still wondering what kind of language system it has. It has no language system! Its speaking and thinking abilities don’t exceed… a dog.”

“So intelligence has lost,” Baines continued hoarsely. “We are the last of our evolutionary line—like dinosaurs. We’ve pushed intelligence as high as it can go. Maybe too high. We’ve reached a point—knowing a lot, thinking a lot, but unable to act.”

“Thinkers,” Anita said, “not doers. This has started to show a paralyzing effect. But this creature…”

“This creature’s physical functions are better than ours ever were. We can recall past experiences, remember them, learn from them. For the future, we can only give clever guesses based on memories of things that have happened in the past. But we can’t be certain. We can only appeal to probability. It’s a gray area, not black and white. We can only guess.”

“Chris Johnson isn’t guessing,” Anita added.

“He can see the future, see what will happen. He can… think ahead. Let’s call it that. He can see the future. But maybe in his eyes, that’s not the future.”

“Indeed,” Anita pondered, “that would be like now. He has a broader now. But his now is ahead, not behind. Our now is linked to the past. For us, only the past is certain. For him, the future is certain. And he might not even remember the past, his memory of the past is no better than any animal.”

“As he grows,” Baines said, “as this species evolves, its ability to think ahead might expand. No longer ten minutes, but thirty minutes. Then an hour, a day, a year. Eventually, they will be able to see their entire life stage. Each of them will live in a fixed, unchanging world. There will be no variables, no uncertainties. No changes! They won’t fear anything. Their world will be completely static, a solidified substance.”

“And when death comes,” Anita said, “they will accept it. They won’t struggle; for them, it will be something that has already happened.”

“It has already happened.” Baines repeated. “In Chris’s view, we’ve already opened fire.” He laughed hoarsely. “Greater survival ability doesn’t mean a more advanced human. If another flood were to submerge the world, only fish would survive. If another ice age came, perhaps only polar bears would survive. When we open the floodgates, he will have already seen the people coming to catch him, seen their exact positions and what they are doing. That’s a very useful physical function—but not a developed mind. It’s completely a physical sense.”

“But if every exit is blocked,” Weston repeated, “he will see he can’t get out. He surrendered once—he’ll surrender again.” He shook his head. “An animal, without language, without tools.”

“With his new senses,” Baines said, “he doesn’t need anything else.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s already past two. Is this building completely sealed?”

“You can’t leave,” Weston said, “you can only stay here overnight—or until we catch that wild type.”

“What about her?” Baines pointed at Anita. “She should be back at the Language Bureau by seven.”

Weston shrugged. “I can’t control her. If she wants to leave, she can leave.”

“I’ll stay,” Anita decided, “I want to be here when he… when he is eliminated. I’ll sleep here.” She hesitated. “Weston, isn’t there any other way? If he’s just an animal, we can’t…”

“Put him in a zoo?” Weston’s voice suddenly rose, filled with hysterical madness. “Put him in a zoo? Hell no! He must be killed!”

The robust, shining figure crouched in the darkness for a long time. He was in a storage room. All around him were boxes; they were neatly stacked, clearly well counted, with concise labels. It was quiet, empty.

But soon a group of people would burst in to search this room. He could see. He clearly saw them checking every corner of the room—they all held lash-tubes, their faces stern, eyes filled with murderous intent.

This was one of many scenes—one of a multitude of clearly depicted scenes intersecting with his own. And each of these many scenes was connected to more tightly linked scenes, extending on and gradually becoming blurred, ultimately becoming indistinct. It was a gradual blurring, each expansion becoming less clear.

But the scene about to happen—the one closest to him—was clear. He could easily see the armed personnel’s line of sight. Therefore, he had to leave this room before they arrived.

The golden figure calmly stood up and walked toward the door. The hallway was empty; he could see he was already outside, in the echoing, roaring emptiness of the hallway, surrounded by metal walls and embedded lights. He boldly pushed open the door and stepped out.

On the other side of the hallway, an elevator was flashing its lights. He walked toward the elevator and entered it. Five minutes later, a group of guards would rush over and jump into this elevator. By then, he would have long since left it and sent it back down. Now, he pressed a button and ascended to the next floor.

He stepped out into an empty corridor. There was no one in sight. This didn’t surprise him. He wouldn’t feel surprised. Surprises didn’t exist for him. The positions of things in the near future—all spatial relationships of matter, were certain to him, just as certain as his own body. The only unknowns were those things that no longer existed. He occasionally wondered where those things went after he passed by, though his curiosity was vague and distant.

He arrived at a small storage cabinet. It had just been searched. No one would open it again for half an hour. He had that long; he could see far ahead. Then…

Then he could see another area, a farther area. He was always moving, constantly heading toward new areas he had never seen before. It was a continuously unfolding panorama, a frozen tableau branching out before him. Everything was fixed, like pieces on a giant chessboard—he crossed his arms while playing chess, his expression calm. He was a transcendent observer, seeing what lay ahead as clearly as he saw what lay beneath him.

Now, crouched in this small storage cabinet, Chris Johnson saw a multitude of extraordinary scenes emerging in the next half hour. There were many paths ahead. This half hour presented an extremely complex pattern, a complex combination of different people, objects, and events. He had reached a critical area; he was about to navigate through a vast world of complexity that was difficult to comprehend.

He focused on a scene ten minutes ahead. It was like a three-dimensional static image, at the end of the corridor was a heavy machine gun, its muzzle aimed at the other end. Armed personnel cautiously moved from one door to another, just as they had repeatedly done before, checking each room again. At the end of that half hour, they would reach this storage cabinet. In one scene, they were looking inside. Of course, by then he would have already left. He wouldn’t be in that scene. He had gone to another scene.

The next scene was an exit. Guards stood in a dense line. There was no way out. He was in this scene, hiding on the other side of this scene, in a nook by the door. He could see the street outside, with stars, lights, passing vehicles, and the outlines of pedestrians.

In the next panoramic image, he went back, away from the exit. No way out. In another panoramic image, he saw himself at other exits; there was a group of golden figures, repeatedly generating copies, allowing him to explore the areas ahead, one after another. But every exit was blocked.

In a dim scene, he saw himself lying on the ground, his body burned to a crisp, dead; he must have tried to rush through that blockade, to break out of the exit.

But that scene was blurry, swaying, indistinguishable from many other scenes. The path he walked, lacking flexibility, would not veer in that direction. He wouldn’t become that way. The golden figure in that scene was like a miniature doll placed in the room, with only the slightest connection to him. That was himself, but just an unreachable self, a self he would never meet. He forgot that panoramic image and continued to check another.

The countless panoramic images surrounding him formed a complex maze, a giant web he could now only assess bit by bit. He was overlooking a dollhouse with infinite rooms; these rooms had no room numbers, each with its own furniture, its own dolls—they all stood still, motionless. The same dolls and furniture reappeared in many rooms. He himself often appeared, along with the two men on the platform, and that woman. This combination appeared again and again; the scene kept replaying, the same actors and props moving in every possible way.

Before leaving the storage cabinet, Chris Johnson checked every room that intersected with the one he was currently occupying. He thoroughly examined each room, considering its contents in detail.

He pushed open the door and calmly walked into the hallway. He clearly knew where he was going and what he had to do. He crouched in the stifling cabinet, quietly and skillfully checking each of his dolls, observing what kind of clearly depicted configuration lay ahead on the inflexible path he was taking, which room in the dollhouse it was, which unit in the grand legion.

Anita took off her metallic foil dress, hanging it on a hanger, then unfastened her shoes and kicked them under the bed. Just as she was about to take off her bra, the door opened.

She gasped. The towering golden figure silently and calmly closed the door behind him and locked it.

Anita grabbed the lash-tube from her vanity. Her hands trembled, her whole body shook. “What do you want?” she asked sharply. Her fingers gripped the lash-tube tightly, nearly spasming. “I’ll kill you.”

The figure stood with arms crossed, silently watching her. This was her first close-up look at Chris Johnson. That beautiful, noble face was handsome yet cold. He had broad shoulders, thick golden hair, golden skin, and glistening body hair…

“Why?” she asked, panting. Her heart raced. “What do you want?”

She could easily kill him, but her hand holding the lash-tube hesitated. Chris Johnson stood there without fear; he was completely unafraid. Why wasn’t he afraid? Didn’t he know what this was? Didn’t he know what this little metal tube could do to him?

“Of course,” she suddenly choked out, “you can see the future. You know I won’t kill you, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

Her face flushed, panic-stricken—very embarrassed. He already knew what she would do; he could see the future, as clearly as she saw this room—she could see the solid walls, the neatly folded blankets on the bed against the wall, her clothes hanging in the closet, her wallet and some small items on the vanity.

“Alright.” Anita stepped back, then suddenly slammed the lash-tube down on the vanity. “I won’t kill you. Why would I kill you?” She rummaged through her wallet, pulling out a cigarette. She trembled as she lit it, her heartbeat accelerating. She was scared, yet strangely fascinated. “Do you want to stay here? There’s no benefit in that. They’ve already checked this dormitory twice. They’ll come again.”

Could he understand her? She saw nothing on his face, just a blankness, only solemnity and nobility. Goodness, he was so tall! He couldn’t possibly be eighteen, still a boy, a child. He looked more like some great golden deity descended to earth.

She suddenly shook her head, trying to shake off the thought. He wasn’t a god. He was a beast. He was a golden beast, here to replace humanity, here to wipe humanity off the face of the Earth.

Anita grabbed the lash-tube. “Get out! You’re an animal! A big, stupid animal! You can’t even understand what I’m saying—you don’t even have language. You’re not human.”

Chris Johnson stood there silently, as if waiting. What was he waiting for? He showed no signs of fear or impatience, even though the sounds of armed personnel searching outside filled the corridor, the sounds of metal clashing, dragging weapons and energy tubes, and the shouts and low murmurs of searching and sealing off various areas of the building.

“They’ll catch you,” Anita said, “you’ll be trapped here. They’re about to search this area.” She roughly extinguished her cigarette. “Oh God, what do you want me to do?”

Chris walked toward her. Anita took a step back. His strong hands grabbed her, the sudden fear making her gasp. She struggled, confused and deeply despairing.

“Let go!” She broke free and jumped away. His face showed no expression. He calmly walked toward her, like a cold god coming to take her away. “Go away!” She fumbled for the lash-tube, trying to raise it. But the lash-tube slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor.

Chris bent down to pick it up. He opened his palm and handed it to her.

“Oh my God,” Anita whispered. She trembled as she took the lash-tube, hesitating to grip it, then placed it back on the vanity.

In the dim light of the room, the huge golden figure seemed to glow, its outline standing out against the darkness. A deity—no, not a god. An animal. A soulless golden giant. She was confused: what kind was he… or was he both? She shook her head, bewildered. It was getting close to four; it was late. She was exhausted and confused.

Chris embraced her. He gently lifted her face and kissed her. His strong arms held her tightly, making it hard for her to breathe. Darkness, mixed with shimmering golden mist, enveloped her. It swirled, round after round, taking away her sanity. She sank into it with gratitude. The darkness enveloped her, dissolving her in a gradually rising torrent of power; this torrent grew more intense with each moment, ultimately roaring and striking her, dimming everything in the world.

Anita blinked. She sat up, instinctively arranging her hair. Chris was standing in front of the closet, reaching up to take something down.

He turned around and tossed something onto the bed; it was her heavy metallic foil travel cloak.

Anita stared at the cloak, puzzled. “What do you want?”

Chris stood by the bed, waiting.

She hesitantly picked up the cloak. A cold fear gripped her. “You want me to take you away from here.” She said softly, “through the guards and police lines.”

Chris said nothing.

“They’ll kill you immediately.” She stood up unsteadily. “You can’t just rush out. Goodness, can’t you do something else? There must be a better way. Maybe I can plead with Weston. I’m an A-class—head of the bureau. I can contact the entire council directly. I should be able to stall them, indefinitely postpone the euthanasia. If we try to break through the line, the chances of success are one in a billion…”

She suddenly stopped.

“But you don’t gamble on luck.” She continued slowly, “you know what will happen. You’ve already seen the cards.” She focused intently on his face. “No, you can’t be outsmarted by a trump card. That’s simply impossible.”

She stood there, pondering for a moment. Then she decisively grabbed the cloak, draping it over her bare shoulders. She fastened the heavy belt, bent down to retrieve her shoes from under the bed, grabbed her wallet, and quickly walked toward the door.

“Come on,” she said, breathless, her cheeks flushed. “Let’s go. Although there are many possible exits, my car is parked outside, in the parking lot beside the building. We can be at my house in an hour. I have a winter home in Argentina. If the worst happens, we can fly there. It’s a remote countryside, far from the city, with only jungles and swamps, almost isolated from the world.” She eagerly reached for the door.

Chris reached out to stop her. He gently, patiently stepped in front of her.

He stood still for a long time, then turned the doorknob and boldly stepped into the hallway.

The hallway was empty, with no one in sight. Anita caught a glimpse of a guard hurrying away. If they had come out a second earlier…

Chris stepped down the hallway. She ran to catch up. He walked quickly and effortlessly, while the girl struggled to keep up. He seemed to know exactly where to go—turning right, moving down a side hallway to reach a delivery passage; boarding an ascending freight elevator; going up, then suddenly stopping.

Chris waited again. Soon, he pushed the door open and stepped out of the elevator. Anita nervously followed behind. She could hear sounds—gunfire and voices, very close.

They reached an exit nearby. Two lines of guards stood directly ahead. Twenty armed personnel formed a solid wall, with a huge robotic heavy machine gun in the middle. All of them were on high alert, their faces tense. They all widened their eyes, gripping their guns tightly. The officer in charge of this exit was a police officer.

“We can never get through,” Anita gasped, “we can’t get ten feet out.” She stepped back. “They’ll…”

Chris took her arm and calmly continued forward. An inexplicable fear surged within her. She struggled desperately, trying to break free, but his fingers were as strong as steel, making it impossible for her to budge. With irresistible force, the tall golden creature silently pulled her alongside him, walking toward the two lines of guards.

“He’s there!” the guards raised their guns, starting to move. The robotic machine gun’s barrel began to rotate. “Catch him!”

Anita’s body went limp. She leaned weakly against the strong body beside her, dragged forward by his unyielding grip, completely unable to resist. The guards’ line, like a wall of gun muzzles, grew closer. Anita fought to control her fear. She stumbled, nearly falling. Chris effortlessly steadied her. She clawed at him, struggling to break free…

“Don’t shoot!” she screamed.

The guns wavered. “Who is she?” the guards scattered, trying to aim at Chris without harming her. “Who did he grab?”

One of the guards saw the stripes on her sleeve, red and black. That was Class A, top level.

“She’s A-class,” the guard exclaimed, quickly stepping back. “Ma’am, stand clear!”

Anita regained her voice. “Don’t shoot! He is… under my guardianship. Do you understand? I want to take him away.”

The wall of guards tensed, stepping back. “We can’t let him through. Director Weston ordered…”

“I’m not under Weston’s jurisdiction.” She successfully made her voice sharp and hard. “Clear the way, I want to take him to the Language Bureau.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Everyone was unresponsive. Then, a guard slowly stepped aside uncertainly.

Chris moved. A blur of speed darted past Anita, slipping through the gap in the confused guards, bursting out of the exit and onto the street. Exploding energy flashed wildly behind him. Shouting guards unleashed their firepower. Anita was left behind, forgotten. Guards and heavy machine gun robots surged into the morning darkness. Sirens blared, patrol cars roared to life.

Anita stood dazed and confused against the wall, nearly unable to catch her breath.

He ran away. He left her. Goodness… what did she do? She shook her head in confusion, then buried her face in her hands. She had been hypnotized! She had lost her will at that moment, and her common sense. She had lost her reason! That animal, that golden giant, had deceived her, used her. And now he had escaped, fleeing into the night.

Sad tears flowed from her clenched fingers. She wiped them away in vain, but they kept flowing.

“He’s gone,” Baines said, “now we can’t catch him. He could be a million miles away by now.”

Anita curled up in a corner, her face pressed against the wall, like a puddle of mud, heartbroken, grieving.

Weston paced back and forth. “But where can he go? Where can he hide? No one will hide him! Everyone knows the laws about deeves!”

“He’s lived most of his life in the woods. He’ll hunt—that’s what he’s been doing. They want to know what he does when he leaves alone. He’s hunting and sleeping under trees.” Baines laughed hoarsely. “And the first woman he meets will be more than happy to hide him—just like her.” He thumbed at Anita.

“So all that golden, that thick hair, that god-like posture has a purpose, not just for show.” Weston’s thick lips twitched. “He doesn’t just have one physical function… he has two. One is new, the latest survival method; the other is as old as life itself.” He stopped pacing, staring at the curled-up figure in the corner. “Bright plumage. Bright feathers, the crests of roosters and swans; the bright scales of fish; and the shiny reflective fur and manes of animals. Animals aren’t necessarily savage and brutal. Lions aren’t savage and brutal. Tigers aren’t either. No large felines are. They are absolutely not savage and brutal.”

“He’ll never have to worry,” Baines said. “He can survive—as long as there are human females to take care of him. And because he can see the future, he already knows that human females can’t resist his sexual allure.”

“We’ll catch him,” Weston said quietly, “I’ve already had the government declare a state of emergency. The military and police will look for him. We have many people—experts from all over the world, and the most advanced machines and equipment. We’ll find him, sooner or later.”

“By then, catching him won’t matter.” Baines said. He placed his hand on Anita’s shoulder, mockingly patting her. “You’ll have company, dear. You won’t be the only one. You’ll just be the first in a long line.”

“Thanks a lot,” Anita said through gritted teeth.

“The oldest and newest survival methods combined into one, forming an animal with perfect adaptability. How can we stop him? We could put you in a sterilization chamber… but we can’t find all the women he encounters along the way. And as long as we miss one, we’re done.”

“We must keep trying,” Weston said, “to catch as many of them as possible before they give birth to the next generation.” A flicker of faint hope flashed across his tired, sagging face. “Maybe his traits are recessive. Maybe our traits can offset his.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Baines said, “I think I already know which lineage will become the dominant one.” He grimaced. “I mean, if I had to guess, it wouldn’t be us.”

Footnotes#

1. deeve and DCA: The term deeve in the original text refers to mutants, but it seems to be a term coined by Philip K. Dick or a reference I’m unaware of. I transliterated it as “狄蚨” in the text, choosing these two characters because it looks like a derogatory term. The abbreviation DCA does not appear in the original text in full form, but it can be inferred to mean “Deeve Control Agency.” I did not use the expanded translation in the original text but retained the abbreviation DCA. ↩

2. San Francisco and Frisco: Both terms refer to San Francisco, the former being the full name, the latter a nickname/common name. In the translation, the former is translated as “旧金山，” while the latter uses the nickname “三藩.” ↩

3. Tom Collins: A cocktail that is smooth and refreshing. ↩