For that particle, that sun, was himself, as all these turning, studious galaxies were himself--the mind of him. What need to question himself now? Why question the manner in which he was given access to this glory under his conscious mind? The golden lights knew. But the minds of those golden lights--the descendants of Vanguard--were wrapped in a spiritual blaze beyond his comprehension. His thoughts rolled on, growing rich within him as that falling sun hurled itself along its returning path. "Darkness--Sun Destroyer--Vanguard--and Devil Star! Rebels all. Where are those who followed the worn paths? Gone, of no consequence. But you Darkness, you Sun Destroyer, you Vanguard--" almost he could see the shadowy pained shapes of them beckoning to him out of a past beyond recall "--have we not created as no other energy creature has created? For there are the golden lights." His thoughts dreamed on, and the strangely visible "galaxies" of his inner mind seemed to glitter their accord. "The golden lights knew what you never knew, Darkness," he dreamed. "The answer to life itself. But even I, in these last moments, see some portion of that distant answer. Yes, Darkness! Life the rebel--the mighty force that combats the entropic gradient of the universe. Let the universe slope down, but life eternal moves upward, building on its own discarded forms. And life will rebuild all that is. "Were we ourselves not changelings, mutations with strange powers? And it was the dark rebel within us that made us so! The dark rebel, that moves as it will...." <tb> Into him, from some outer circle of being, came shrill warning. He ignored it. Let the conscious mind of him thrash about, in terror of what was to happen. He would not return to it. He was here, his bodiless entity, watching mind function in dauntless disobedience to the laws lifeless destiny laid down. He watched the fall of that glowing particle in rigid fascination. Now would come the rearrangement of this vast webwork about him. New thoughts, different emotions--and volition that thwarted destiny. For destiny's only death for a purple light came from a green. But destiny could not rule life's dark rebel. Again the warning, the clamorous scream to return, to fight. But he would have none of it. He felt a tender pity for that being whose conscious mind was obedient to what the stresses and strains of his vast body demanded. He would not return. The dark rebel struck. In the timeless moment of its striking, all space seemed to still. And the conscious mind of Oldster, that aged being, stilled as well. His animal struggles ceased. Alone in his mausoleum of darkness, he was filled with a pulsing wonder. He felt the force fields girding him together lose their prime energy. And then expansion. "I am dying," he whispered.