THE SOUL-EMPTY ONES Walter M. Miller, Jr. Miller, to my mind, is a writer of exceptional power. He is the author of what may be my all-time favorite story, "Vengeance for Nikolai," and the novel A Canticle for Leibowitz. When-ever / see his name on fiction, I know it will stir me. The present entry is not his best, for reasons explained in the introduction to this volume, but I remember it across three decades as a good, solid adventure. What distinguishes man from animal, apart from intelligence? Is it his soul? If so, what is the status of an android?that is, a creature crafted in the laboratory?who is made in the complete image of man, feelings and all? Fast action plus a good thematic question?this, to me, is the essence of conventional science fiction. ?PA Miller had a sensational career beginning in 1951, published stunning novellas and short stories in the magazines ("The Darfstellar," Astounding 1/55, won a Hugo), topped it off with the 1959 A Canticle for Leibowitz, considered by many to be the single finest science-fiction novel ever published (it is in everyone's top ten), and then utterly ceased to publish. No one knows why. A mysterious, emblematic figure of science fiction's most ambitious (and emblematic) decade, Miller lives in a southern state in virtual isolation from the genre to which he gave so much; there are vague rumors of a novel in progress. "The Soul-Empty Ones," a characteristic story and apparently Miller's only unreprinted shorter work, appeared in Astounding in 1952, incited praise from fames Blish (collected in his volume of criticism, The Issue At Hand), and has not been read by other than collectors and specialists in the last quarter of a century. Until now. They heard the mournful bleat of his ramshorn in the night, warning them that he was friend, asking the sentries not to unleash the avalanches upon the mountain trail where he rode. They returned to their stools and huddled about the lamplight, waiting?two warriors and a woman. The woman was watching the window; and to-ward the valley, bright bonfires yellowed the darkness. "He should never have gone," the girl said tonelessly. The warriors, father and son, made no answer. They were valley men, from the sea, and guests in the house of Daner. The younger one looked at his sire and shook his head slowly. The father clenched his jaw stubbornly. "I could not let you go to blaspheme," he growled defensively. "The invaders are the sons of men. If Daner wishes to attack them, he is our host, and we cannot prevent it. But we shall not violate that which is written of the invaders. They have come to save us." "Even if they kill us, and take our meat?" muttered the blond youth. "Even so. We are their servants, for the sons of men created our fathers out of the flesh of beasts, and gave them the appearance of men." The old one's eyes glowed with the passionate light of conviction. The young one inclined his head gravely and submissively, for such was the way of the valley people toward their parents. The girl spoke coldly. "At first, I thought you were cowardly, old man. Now I think your whole tribe is cowardly." Without a change of expression, the gray-haired one lifted his arms into the lamplight. His battles were written upon them in a crisscross of white knife scars. He lowered them silently without speaking. "It's in the mind that you are cowardly," said the girl. "We of the Natani fight our enemies. If our enemies be gods, then we shall fight gods." "Men are not gods," said the young one, whose name was Falon. His father slapped him sharply across the back of the neck. "That is sacrilege," he warned. "When you speak of the invaders. They are men and gods." The girl watched them with contempt. "Among the Natani, when a man loses his manhood by age, he goes into the forest with his war knife and does not return. And if he neglects to go will- ingly, his sons escort him and see that he uses the knife. When a man is so old that his mind is dull, it is better for him to die." The old warrior glowered at his hostess, but remained polite. "Your people have strange ways," he said acidly. Suddenly a man came in out of the blackness and stood swaying in the doorway. He clutched his dogskin jacket against his bleeding chest as a sponge. He was panting softly. The three occupants of the small stone hut came slowly to their feet, and the woman said one word: "Daher!" The man mopped his forehead and staggered a step forward. He kicked the door closed with his heel. His skin had gone bloodless gray, and his eyes wandered wildly about the room for a moment. Then he sagged to his knees. Falon came to his aid, but Daner shook him off. "They're really the sons of men," he gasped. "Did you doubt it?" asked the old valley man. Daner nodded. His mouth leaked a trickle of red, and he spat irritably. "I saw their skyboats. I fought with a guard. They are the sons of men . . . but they . . . are no longer men." He sank to a sitting position and leaned back against the door, staring at the woman. "Ea-Daner," he breathed softly. "Come care for your man, you wench!" growled the old one. "Can't you see he's dying?" The girl stood back a few feet, watching her husband with sadness and longing, but not with pity. He was staring at her with deep black eyes, abnormally brightened by pain. His breath was a wet hiss. Both of them ignored their valley guests. "Sing me `The Song of the Empty of Soul,' Ea, my wife, " he choked, then began struggling to his feet. Falon, who knew a little of the Natani ways, helped him pull erect. Daner pawed at the door, opened it, and stood looking out into the night for a moment. A dark line of trees hovered to the west. Daner drew his war knife and stood listening to the yapping of the wild dogs in the forest. "Sing, woman." She sang. In a low, rich voice, she began the chant of the Soul-Empty Ones. The chant was weary, slowly repeating its five monotonous notes, speaking of men who had gone away, and of their Soul-Empty servants they had left behind. Dauer stepped from the doorsill, and became a wavering shadow, receding slowly toward the trees. The song said that if a man be truly the son of men, the wild dogs would not devour him in the time of death. But if he be Empty of Soul, if he be only the mocking image of Man, then the wild dogs would feed?for his flesh was of the beast, and his ancestor's seed had been warped by Man to grow in human shape. The two valley warriors stood clumsily; their ways were not of the Natani mountain folk. Their'etiquette forbade them interfere in their host's action. Dauer had disappeared into the shadows. Ea-Daner, his wife, sang softly into the night, but her face was rivered with moisture from her eyes, large dark eyes, full of anger and sadness. The song choked off. From the distance came a savage man-snarl. It was answered by a yelp; then a chorus of wild-dog barks and growls raged in the forest, drowning the cries of the man. The girl stopped singing and closed the door. She returned to her stool and gazed out toward the bonfires._ Her face was empty, and she was no longer crying. Father and son exchanged glances. Nothing could be done. They sat together, across the room from the girl. After a long time, the elder spoke. "Among our people, it is customary for a widow to return to her father's house. You have no father. Will you join my house as a daughter?" She shook her head. "My people would call me an outcast. And your people would remember that I am a Natani." "What will you do?" asked Falon. "We have a custom," she replied vaguely. Falon growled disgustedly. "I have fought your tribe. I have fought many tribes. They all have different ways, but are of the same flesh. Custom! Bah! One way is as good as another, and noway-at-all is the best. I have given myself to the devil, because the devil is the only god in whom all the tribes believe. But he never answers my prayers, and I think I'll spit on his name." He was rewarded by another slap from his father. "You are the devil's indeed!" raged the old man. Falon accepted it calmly, and shrugged toward the girl. "What will you do, Ea-Daner?" She gazed at him through dull grief. "I will follow the way. I will mourn for seven days. Then I will take a war knife and go to kill one of my husband's enemies. When it is done, I will follow his path to the forest. It is the way of the Natani widow." Falon stared at her in unbelief. His shaggy blond eyebrows gloomed into a frown. "No!" he growled. "I am ashamed that the ways of my father's house have made me sit here like a woman while Daner went to fight against the sons of men! Daner said nothing. He respected our ways. He has opened his home to us. I shan't let his woman be ripped apart by the wild dogs!" "Quiet!" shouted his father. "You are a guest! If our hosts are barbarians, then you must tolerate them!" The girl caught her breath angrily, then subsided. "Your father is right, Falon," she said coldly. "I don't admire the way you grovel before him, but he is right." Falon squirmed and worked his jaw in anger. He was angry with both of them. His father had been a good man and a strong warrior; but Falon wondered if the way of obedience was any holier than the other ways. The Natani had no high regard for it. Ea-Daner had no father, because the old man had gone away with his war knife when he became a burden on the tribe. But Falon had always obeyed, not out of respect for the law, but out of admiration for the man. He sighed and shrugged. "Very well, then, Ea-Daner, you shall observe your custom. And I will go with you to the places of the invader." "You will not fight with the sons...
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