Epilogue

The prospect was awe-inspiring. The end of the universe. And Kingman, Taylor, and
Waterfield would be the first human beings to witness what lay beyond. It would
answer mankind's penultimate question, and might even go some way to proving - or
otherwise - the existence of God.

The trio withdrew momentarily from reverie and stared wide-eyed at each other. Seven
years had passed since they had left Earth aboard the revolutionary Deep Space
Cruiser, "Uncharted", but excitement remained at a premium, and increased as they
neared journey's end. Of course each felt privileged to have been selected for the most
significant mission since mankind first reached for the stars. But they had earned their
places through years of rigorous mental and physical training. In short, each had
devoted his entire life to this one operation.

Not once did they regret the decision, however; this was a surefire way of being
remembered after they were dead, as the men who brought back the answer. Their
names would stand alongside such historic achievers as Albert Einstein, Issac Newton,
Dr Alec Forester (inventor of the Ambrynite Stardrive), and countless others.

Kingman - a small, muscular man; a stark contrast to his tall, lanky companions -
gazed at the forward viewing screen which was at maximum magnification. For some
time now the way ahead had become noticeably clearer; the totally black cloak of
darkness having been exchanged for one of elephant grey. Also, no astral bodies
could be viewed on their set course. The emptiness of space continued lightening in
shade until they found themselves speeding through a strangely pure white void. The
view through the front screen remained this way for several hours, but not once did
the attention of the crew waver. In fact, the bright white had a curious hypnotic affect
on the Uncharted's crew. The ship proceeded steadily onward, as if itself
apprehensive of what it might discover, and reluctant to blunder foolhardily into the
unknown.

Jack Kingman glanced at his companions and took note of their reactions to the
outside view, attempting to compare them with his own. Taylor, a thirty five year old
man with hyperactive tendencies - an individual that had to be occupied with
something at all times - currently stood perfectly rigid, erect, as if standing to attention.
His dark, close-cropped hair glistened with the sweat of anxiety, and his deep blue
eyes were glassy and carried a far away look within the twin pools. It was as if he were
still at home on Earth. Waterfield was a middle-aged man who took everything in his
stride. His greying sideburns and goatee beard gave him a dignified look - a look of
calm in crisis. Only slightly the elder of the three, Waterfield was looked on as a father
figure; Taylor and Kingman could not help but take their lead from him. However, his
expression now betrayed his inner self. He was white faced and wild looking, as if he
dreaded what they might find rather than relished it. The eyes were wide, the forehead
beaded with perspiration.

But what of himself? He felt hot and clammy, too. He could feel the dampness in his
mousy hair and on his back. But other than that he felt neither fear nor anxiety. Only
mesmerism. He was held totally in thrall of the events.

Then they saw it; a geometrically perfect vertical line which seemed to widen into a
wall as they drew closer. A kaleidoscope of feint and blurred colours swam slowly in
and out of sight, like waves rolling in on a sandy beach. It was a mixture of
incomprehensible degrees of light and shape. Kingman experimented with the
magnification and focussing of the viewing screen on the manual computer console,
but there was seemingly no sense to the extraordinary sight. They were still too far
away.

Hours turned to days which became weeks. This interim period proved excruciatingly
agonising for the Uncharted's small contingent. It was the not knowing. Up until now
they had merely been overtaken by emotions of fascination and excitement, but at this
moment any one of the three would have killed for the knowledge!

During these weeks the crew lived like wild men, leaving the bridge only to visit the
sanitary facilities when necessity demanded they relieve themselves. None could
summon the enthusiasm to take a particle disintegrator shower, or to undertake
obligatory maintenance checks. They merely waited for the moment when they would
have the answer.

Then, before they were ready for it - before the universe was ready for it - they were
granted their wish.

Kingman felt his face drain of colour, and knew instinctively that his companions were
undergoing similar reactions. The sight registered in his consciousness, but could not
be properly analysed and logged to memory. The thought - the realisation was bereft
of all logistic reasoning. Brain impulses hammered on the door to insanity and would
soon force entry.

A noise to one side of Kingman jolted him from his semi-hypnotic trance. His
expression - one of incredulity and pure astonishment bordering on hysteria - remained
firmly fixed in place. With wide eyes and slack jaw he finally tore his gaze from the
awesome spectacle before him and turned to see Taylor lying prone on the titanium
floor. Kingman bent down and turned the man on his back. The first thing he noticed
was his companion's face covered in blood. Presumably an enormous surge in blood
pressure had burst the capillaries within his nose. But, more importantly, there were no
signs of life; the sheer terror in the man's still open eyes was terrible to behold. It
seemed that Taylor's heart had simply stopped as a result of pure fright.

Strangely, Kingman felt no remorse. Other priorities demanded his immediate
attention. He threw himself at the control console and silently cursed his fingers for
refusing to properly cooperate. Absently registering in his brain was the fact that
Waterfield had managed to make it back to the cryogenic sleep compartments and
activate his capsule. But Kingman had no time to devote to others. Having completed
feeding the shipboard computer emergency instructions he staggered confused and
exhausted towards his own sleep capsule. A triggered mechanism under the floor
activated his cryogenic support systems, and the glass top lifted agonisingly slowly.
He fell inside and found just enough time to connect the small tubes to the relative
parts of his anatomy before blacking out.

In mere seconds Kingman and Waterfield were in deep cryogenic slumber, their bodily
functions slowed to a virtual standstill. Perhaps it was well that they could not feel the
effects of the Uncharted literally flipping over in space and thrusting away at an
astronomical speed, as if the Devil himself were in hot pursuit!

Although General James Walker would never outwardly let it show, he was thrilled to
be in the position he was. There was great responsibility, the majority of which could
be delegated without him losing the credit for major successes. As he made his way to
Professor Maynard's laboratory he blessed his fortune at being promoted only weeks
prior to the recovery of the "Uncharted". Ultimately it meant that his name would be
included in the record books as the first person to question the travellers on the results
of their journey.

Of course he had been saddened by the news of Taylor's death, but the brutal truth
was that he was expendable; it only required one of the crew to relay this most vital
information. Walker was a typically stereotyped image of an army officer. He had an
abrupt manner, and constantly reminded siblings of his superior rank. The uniform he
wore was immaculate; he was proud of his impressive bearing. He twisted one end of
his handlebar moustache in excited anticipation.

"What's the latest, Prof'?" he inquired as he pushed open the swing door and entered
the lab.

"Hmm? Oh, no progress yet, General," an elderly white-haired man with a bent back
replied, his thoughts obviously more on his work than the current conversation.
"Waterfield is babbling utterly nonsensical rubbish continuously. And worse than that,
Kingman is a total quivering wreck. The reaction to something he has seen has struck
him dumb - most likely permanently, and his nervous disorder is so extreme that he is
finding it impossible to write at all."

Walker was devastated, but tried not to let it show. The thought that the world might
never know the truth didn't bear thinking about. "Isn't there anything you can do?!"

The professor spoke noncommittally. "We're currently attempting to construct a
prototype apparatus known as a Speech Receptor Delay Brain Response
Manipulator."

"In English please, professor," spoke the General a little impatiently.

"In layman's terms, its purpose is to intercept signals sent by a part of the brain
immediately prior to them reaching the receptor which prompts speech. At best
Kingman's thoughts will be displayed as words on a computer monitor screen. By
typing sentences using the keyboard you will be able to hold a simple conversation."

"And at worst?"

The professor frowned as if the answer to that was obvious. "Well, it will do
absolutely nothing, of course."

Walker was shown to the far end of the laboratory and ushered through a door into a
back room. The room they entered possessed layout similar to that of a small hospital
ward. It contained four beds - and two occupants. Three men - obviously of the
medical profession - crowded around one of the patients, all leaning close. Walker
was led towards him, and on seeing the professor approaching the three men stepped
back slightly.

"This is Waterfield," announced Professor Maynard to his one man audience. "Any
change?" he asked the men. All three shook their heads, and one even threw his hands
in the air despairingly.

Walker approached the angle-propped bed. Waterfield's face couldn't have
appeared paler had they whitewashed it. His mouth was open slightly and the bottom
lip quivered, spraying droplets of spittle into the immediate vicinity. Walker leaned
closer, but the mumbling proved to be totally incoherent. Finally he conceded defeat
with a frown. He paused to take another look at the wild staring eyes.

"I don't think he even knows we're here," spoke the professor. "Kingman's over here."

Walker was directed over to the opposite corner. On the bed lay a middle-aged man.
A nurse at his side was constantly mopping the glistening sweat from his skin. A drip
feed was attached, and a few items of electronic machinery lay scattered about.

"Liquid intake is essential," pointed out the professor, "to prevent dehydration. He can
see and hear everything occurring around him, but can not react physically."

Kingman wore only a couple of light items of clothing. They were soaked through with
perspiration. His body trembled as if trapped in a permanent shiver. The eyes, Walker
noticed, took everything in, but harboured a haunted look, like a highly strung rabbit
caught in the twin beams of an oncoming vehicle.

Suddenly, with a loud noise that made Walker and the professor start, the swing doors
behind them crashed open. One of the three medical men quickly leapt aside to avoid
being run over by a man and woman wheeling in a bulky piece of machinery.

"It's ready!" the woman shouted excitedly.

"Excellent. Excellent," the professor congratulated. "Has it been tested?"

"We haven't had the opportunity," answered the woman.

"Hmm. Quite so." He turned to Walker. "Well, it's all or nothing, I'm afraid."

The following ten minutes saw the professor's staff running round like headless
chickens, making preparations for the initial use of the experimental machine -
nicknamed the "SaReDiBoRuM" for no other reason except that it contained the
initials of the full description, with a vowel inserted between each. Kingman's head was
shaven of all hair so that several sticky pads containing electronic receptors could be
attached. Then all was ready, and the professor gestured that Walker should come
closer.

"Go ahead, give it a try."

Walker moved as close as he could to Kingman without actually losing sight of the
computer screen. The patient's eyes were glued to him, and after only a few seconds
Walker had to look away.

"Kingman, can you hear me?"

A string of double Dutch appeared on the screen. Walker frowned, and the professor
moved forward to make adjustments to his machine. The screen flickered and a new
set of letters appeared. The professor smiled in satisfaction.

I CAN HEAR YOU.

Kingman displayed no outward signs that he had just spoken, if not verbally.

"Kingman, my name is General Walker. I want you to tell me what you saw."

There was a lengthy pause. Walker was about to speak again, when:

LIGHT... COLOUR... UNIVERSE...

"Yes, you witnessed what lies at the end of the universe." He spoke as if to a child;
gently coaxing. "You must unburden yourself."

ANOTHER UNIVERSE... IDENTICAL TO THIS.

A shiver ran down Walker's spine. "What did you see of this universe?"

A MAN... IN CHAIR... READING BOOK... EVERYTHING LARGER THERE.
MUCH LARGER... SAW CLEARLY...

"Go on." prompted the professor.

LOOKING DIRECTLY AT US... WE... WE WERE PART OF BOOK.

Walker frowned. "How is that significant?" he asked.

THE BOOK... THE BOOK... TITLE... HISTORY OF THE EARTH... TO ITS
DESTRUCTION...

There followed another long pause. Walker and the professor turned their attention
from the computer screen to the unmoving figure on the bed. But there was no
evidence on Kingman's features of the turmoil taking place in his fragile mind.

They were suddenly startled by the voice of one of the watching technicians. It was
just one word, delivered with an overwhelming tone of incredulity. "Look!"

Both men quickly switched their attention back to the screen. They could do nothing
but gape at the words.

... DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND... THE READER... THE READER... FINAL
PAGE... HE WAS ON THE FINAL PAGE!!

END

Note: Epilogue first appeared in the periodical Flickers 'N' Frames. It has been
described, correctly I think, as a 1950s style of SF story. Not surprising, as I grew up
reading the likes of Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein and Harry Harrison.