And it sits within my brain as it sits within the brain of no other thing, for I am one with it as is no other thing. I know of it with a dreadful certainty and they do not know at all or, if they do, they only guess at the great immensity of its truthfulness.
And all must know. All must know as I know.
But there is something going on to keep them from knowing, or to twist their knowledge so their knowing is all wrong. I must find out what it is and I must correct it. And somehow or other I must strike into the future, I must set it aright for the days I will not see.
I am your destiny, the answerer had said.
Destiny, not fatalism.
Destiny, not foreordination.
Destiny, the way of men and races and of worlds.
Destiny, the way you made your life, the way you shaped your living…the way it was meant to be, the way that it would be if you listened to the still, small voice that talked to you at the many turning points and crossroads.
But if you did not listen…why, then, you did not listen and you did not hear. And there was no power that could make you listen. There was no penalty if you did not listen except the penalty of having gone against your destiny.
There were other thoughts or other voices. Sutton could not tell which they were, but they were outside the tangled thing that was he and destiny.