By Brennen H. J.
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Some drunk was singing a Bobbing Day carol—off key—and his friends were making it worse by attempting harmony. Mim winced. "Yes, we're developing our own traditions, aren't we? " "It's all very natural to the younger set. Mim, do you realize that there are children who've been born on Yggdrasil—who've never known anything else? Some day they'll outnumber us oldtimers. By the time we get to the Milky Way—" She took his arm. "Right now we'd better worry about getting to the Forum. " He smiled at her and drew her a little closer.
He lay propped on the floor pad, feeling the oppressive weight on his chest, his shoulders, his neck as he tried to hold his head up. All down the length of the observation loggia, dozens of people lay similarly sprawled on pads, working prone, their instruments on the floor beside them. Bram had ordered everybody to crawl, not walk, if they absolutely had to move about. The bulk of the population of the tree were in their quarters, lying down. It was still half a day till periastron, and they would remain there until then.
Nobody was doing much talking. Bram stared, fascinated, at the flat, double-ended funnel of fire that was sucking in the stars. You couldn't see the black hole itself, of course. You couldn't even see the accretion disk. But you could see those whirlpools of superheated gas by the inferno of radiation they gave off as they fell down that cosmic drain. And that intense, tiny blaze at the center was where the condensed matter crossed the static limit and doomed itself to leave the universe forever.