Web of the Norns

WEB OF THE NORNS By Harry Harrison and Katherine MacLean

The Three Norns, weavers of men's destiny, sit in the dusty hall of eternity with the glittering tapestry of the dimensions around them. Their aged fingers move tirelessly over the strands — twisting, weaving and joining in an infinity of combinations.

Each strand is a life. As they guide the strands they guide the lives. Their voices rise and fall in a constant murmur: they pass the single eye, one to the other, to watch the weaving of this incredible fabric. The voices grow louder, their tones change. Man's destiny is not always smooth.

"No, stop, you cannot bring that world line here."

"It makes the pattern. ."

"It makes the pattern worse. I will have to make changes in my section."

"Destroyed, I say; ruined. The work of centuries!"

The voices grow louder, there is a hint of anger in the tones. "Stop, Grissel, stop. Those changes cannot be made." Her hand flicks across the tapestry in an angry gesture.

There is a ring on the middle finger, the Unicorn Ring. The ring brushes the surface and the Unicorn's horn catches in one of the tiny glittering threads of a human life — and pulls it loose.

"I'll do it my way — give me the eye."

The argument continues. The thread of a man's fate floats unattached in space, unnoticed.

I

"Sorry; mother, it doesn't fit."

"I got it in your size, Granty," Grant's mother said firmly. "Try it on again and see if it really doesn't fit."

Grant O'Reilly, tried it on, He knew very well that it wouldn't fit, and it didn't. The coat was night across the shoulders and his wrists stuck three inches of cuff out past the sleeves. He had become used to this kind of thing. His mother had bought all his clothes for the wedding, and as usual she had assumed he was younger than he was and got everything too small. This time it was serious. It was Sunday, and they had come a long way out of town for his wedding in this small church where Lucy's aunts and, uncles and cousins had been married. There was no chance of buying or renting a morning coat.

He looked at himself in the mirror, trying to see himself in the eyes of Lucy's poised and influential-relatives. No, it wouldn't do. Lucy would be dismayed, ashamed of him with his wrists sticking out like a gawky farm boy. He tried to tug the sleeves down. Today of all days, he had to look sophisticated, the way Lucy liked him to be.

His reflection stared back calfishly from the pier glass and made the same plucking gestures at the jacket cuffs. He didn't really like this tall, thin young fellow with the ash-blonde hair. The eyebrows were so light that they were almost invisible, giving the face a gentle, saintly expression. When he was away from mirrors he always imagined himself stronger and darker — the fit husband and defender of a lovely woman like Lucy.

Lucy! A warm glow flushed his face at the thought of her. It was more of a physical thought than a spiritual one and he felt that it somehow didn't belong in church. He turned from the glass and tried to shrug off the jacket and the thought at the same time.

Herb Collomb slumped in his chair against the far wall and puffed composedly on his ancient pipe. The strength in his solid form gave Grant a feeling of security — the same way it had done all the way through college. They had roomed together and graduated together. It was only fitting that Herb be his best man. Herb grinned around his pipe and Grant was surprised to find himself grinning back.

The vestry window was open and a warm breath of spring air blew in. A bird was singing somewhere outside; the whole world seemed very wonderful to Grant.