View from Another Shore : European Science Fiction

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View from Another Shore : European Science Fiction Page 29

by Rottensteiner, Franz(Author)


  trapped animal.

  172

  Adrian Rogoz

  ‘Lean on that railing near you’, came a kindly invitation from the

  middle parallelepiped; his pedestal bore a plaque: ‘The God of

  Nothingness’.

  Tell us what happened to you’, said the parallelepiped on the right,

  ‘The God of Concentration’.

  Some hoarse sounds, like sobs or strangled cries, were all that

  Homer could produce.

  ‘Enough!’, said the god. ‘From your memory traces and from

  information we gathered before you arrived, I have put together

  almost your entire history. Nod if you understand me.’

  The man nodded, but his eyes were unfocused.

  ‘It’s an unusual case’, the left-hand parallelepiped said with a

  joyous piping sound; he was ‘The God of Speed’. ‘I suggest that the

  remnants in his mind be amplified, translated and emitted by a

  human voice.’

  A red microphone above Homer switched on and from it came

  words spoken with obvious effort: ‘What’s happening to me? What do

  you want?’

  ‘Fine!’, said the God of Concentration with a chuckle. ‘All your

  questions will be answered, even the ones you don’t know how to

  ask.’

  ‘But we won’t ask you any questions or, more exactly, any more

  questions’, chimed the God of Nothingness in a sweet tone of voice.

  ‘Your very coming has provided us with the most precious thing in

  the world: an absurd improbability come true! Here are the facts.’

  ‘Amid all the thousands of cubic parsecs, Earth is a rare occur-

  rence.’ It was the right-hand brain that was speaking now. ‘The need

  of very special solar characteristics means a probability of 10-5 that

  any galaxy will have an Earth. But a planet inhabited by rational

  beings imposes new conditions: the proper distance from the sun, a

  magnetic field to block harmful radiation, an extensive liquid broth

  to allow life to germinate, a favourable atmosphere. These and

  numerous other conditions reduce the probability of such an Earth

  to 10-10.’

  ‘Maaad-ness, maaad-ness, maaad-ness’, came Homer’s amplified

  inner voice, like a bell wildly tolling to rouse a burning village.

  ‘You’re right, of course’, said the middle God, serious and scratchy.

  ‘This exceptional concurrence of circumstances is required if you

  Earth-worms are to make your appearance. First had to come the

  great reptiles, preparing the way for the small mammals. A few

  thousands of these at the dawn of time made it possible for you

  The Altar of the Random Gods

  173

  men to cover the earth with your millions of bodies and their upper

  ends like barely rational pinheads.’

  ‘What am I doing here? What do you want with me?’, Homer

  wailed. It sounded as though his spirit were floating free of his body.

  ‘You came to us because an almost zero-degree probability was

  verified’, hummed the middle God again, calmly and with a touch of

  admiration in his voice. ‘You’re quite an exceptional case!’

  ‘A collision of two cars on the present traffic lanes can occur only

  once in ten years’, the God of Speed explained in a friendly way. ‘A

  collision of one car with two others can occur only once in a century.

  The probability that the same car should in the next moment strike

  another flying machine is once in a thousand years, and the addi-

  tional splitting of your capsule by a helicopter rotor only once in ten

  thousand years. Your escaping alive at this point increases the index

  to one hundred thousand years. The chance of your half-cabin

  breaking through the rescue net—a million years. Your not being

  killed—ten million. Your being roused from a faint by your fall—one

  hundred million. The possibility of your managing to pull closed your

  protective membrane—a billion. The likelihood of falling in water and

  not on land—ten billion.’

  ‘That makes you as old as a solar system’, commented the God of

  Concentration.

  ‘The good luck to be carried from the river bottom by the factory

  outflow—one hundred billion.’

  ‘As old as a galaxy!’

  ‘And the probability of reaching us alive—a thousand billion years.’

  ‘As old as the universe!’, murmured the God of Nothingness by way

  of conclusion.

  At the beginning Homer had held on, as best he could, to the railing

  in front of the altar. But now he was hanging there like a rag doll,

  arms limp and legs awkwardly spread, held up under the arms by a

  metallic bar.

  ‘Aren’t you Barbara Hamilton?’

  ‘Yes’, said a surprised female voice, ‘but how did you know that?’

  The amplifier was reproducing the sound track of Homer’s memory.

  ‘Adrian Gord spoke of you once and I imagined you just as you are.’

  ‘Incredible!’

  ‘You’re exactly like my image of you.’

  ‘How nice!’

  ‘Doesn’t that prove we’re made for each other?’

  ‘Really?’, said the woman’s deep and now somewhat startled voice.

  174

  Adrian Rogoz

  Before Homer’s clouded and inflamed eyes the windows became

  the lights of the distant city and the altars a happy, moving merry-go-

  round.

  ‘Analyse the delta waves!’, requested the God of Concentration.

  Two metallic arms, deft and impersonal, came down from some

  recess or other and grasped the human lump under the arms; Homer

  was gone in spirit into the green fields of his youth.

  ‘Can’t this fleeting moment stay forever? How angelic those violins

  are! What sweet sensations sweep through me!’

  ‘You have only five minutes to live’, said the God of Speed in the

  impersonal command tone of a space-flight dispatcher, as multi-

  coloured waves, along with other invisible ones, eagerly crisscrossed

  over Homer’s body.

  The ‘voice’ that was reproducing the inner words of the man

  crucified upon the metallic arms was no longer human at all. It

  sounded like a magnetic tape running at dizzying speed. But it was

  expressing a whole existence; run slowly it would probably have

  taken as long as Homer’s life had.

  ‘Homer Hidden’, intoned the husky voice of the God of Nothing-

  ness, ‘you’re a being that comes but once in a universe. Be glad that

  you occurred!’

  ‘Integral amplifiers on!’, ordered the God of Speed.

  Homer’s field of vision suddenly had no boundaries and Barbara’s

  smile filled the firmament.

  Then the man trembled in the sensitive metallic arms and these, as

  though surprised, opened their grip. Homer collapsed at the foot of

  the altar, and a ribbon of blood leaped from his mouth.

  ‘Strange, the fixations that even the rarest of mortals entertain!’,

  exclaimed the God of Concentration. ‘But what a splendid occurrence

  this was, just the same!’

  The bundles of light that had continued to touch Homer’s body

  withdrew hesitatingly.

  ’I told you once before that you’ve been infected with that useless
r />   feeling for beauty’, said the God of Nothingness in his coldest voice.

  translated by MATTHEW J. O’CONNELL

  ITALY

  Good Night, Sophie

  LINO ALDANI

  Grey and blue overalls were running along the street. Grey and blue,

  no other colours. There were no stores, no agencies, there wasn’t a

  single soda-fountain, or a window full of toys, or even a perfume

  store. Once in a while, on the fronts covered with soot, encrusted

  with rubbish and moss, the revolving door of a shop opened. Inside

  was dreamland: Oneirofilm, happiness within everybody’s reach, to

  fit everybody’s pocketbook; inside was Sophie Barlow, nude, for

  anyone who wanted to buy her.

  *

  *

  *

  *

  *

  There were seven of them and they were closing in from all sides. He

  swung violently, hitting one of them in the jaw, which sent him

  tumbling down the green marble staircase. Another, tall and brawny,

  appeared below, brandishing a bludgeon. He dodged the blow by

  hunching quickly, then grabbed the slave by the waist, hurling him

  against a column of the temple. Then, while he was trying to corner a

  third one, a vice of iron seized his neck. He tried to free himself, but

  another slave tackled his legs, and still another immobilized his left

  arm.

  He was dragged away bodily. From the depths of the enormous

  cavern came the rhythmical notes of the sitars and tablas, an

  enervating, obsessive music, full of long quavers.

  They tied him naked in front of the altar. Then the slaves fled into

  the galleries that opened like eye-sockets of skulls in the walls of the

  cavern. The air was filled with the smell of resin, a strong odour of

  musk and nard, an aphrodisiac atmosphere emitted by the burning

  torches, tripods and braziers.

  When the dancing virgins appeared, the music stopped for a

  moment, then took up again, more intensely, accompanied by a

  distant choir of feminine voices.

  It was an orgiastic, inebriating dance. The virgins passed by him one

  by one, they grazed his stomach, face and chest with their light veils

  176

  Lino Aldani

  and the long, soft feathers of their headdresses. Diadems and neck-

  laces flashed in the half-light.

  At the end the veils fell, slowly, one at a time. He saw the swelling

  of their breasts, almost felt the softness of all those limbs that were

  moving in front of him in a tangle of unsated desire.

  Then, the long, freezing sound of a gong interrupted the dance. The

  music ceased. The dancers, like guilt-ridden phantoms, disappeared in

  the depths of the cave, and in the profound silence the priestess

  appeared, exceedingly beautiful, wrapped in a leopard cape. She had

  small bare pink feet, and between her hands clasped a long bluish

  knife. Her eyes, black, deep, constantly shifting, seemed to search his

  soul.

  How long did the intolerable wait last? The knife cut his bonds with

  devastating slowness, her great black eyes, moist and desirous,

  continued to stare at him, while a jumble of words, whispering,

  murmuring, came to his ears in a persuasive, enticing rhythm.

  She dragged him to the foot of the altar. The leopard cape slid to

  earth, she stretched out languidly and drew him to herself with a

  gesture at once sweet and imperious.

  In the cavern, a conch shell of sounds and shadows, the world came

  and went in an ebb and flow of sighs.

  *

  *

  *

  *

  *

  Bradley turned off the machine and removed the plastic helmet. He

  came out of the booth, his hands and forehead damp with sweat, his

  breathing heavy, his pulse accelerated.

  Twenty technicians, the director and the principal actress rushed to

  the supervisor, impatiently surrounding him. Bradley’s eyes moved

  around, looking for an armchair.

  ‘I want a glass of water’, he said.

  He stretched out gingerly on an air cushion with a long, sloping

  back, drying the beads of perspiration, and breathing deeply. A

  technician made his way through the group and handed Bradley a

  glass, which he emptied in one gulp.

  ‘Well? What do you think of it?’, the director asked anxiously.

  Bradley waved impatiently, then shook his head.

  ‘We’re not there yet, Gustafson.’

  Sophie Barlow lowered her eyes. Bradley touched her hand.

  ‘It has nothing to do with you, Sophie. You were terrific. I . . . only a

  Good Night, Sophie

  177

  great actress could have created that last embrace. But the Oneirofilm

  itself is artificial, unharmonious, unbalanced . . .’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’, the director asked.

  ‘Gustafson! I said the film is unharmonious, don’t you understand?’

  ‘I heard you. You say it’s ‘‘unharmonious’’, unbalanced. Okay, the

  music is Indian, four hundred years old, and the costumes are from

  central Africa. But the consumer isn’t going to notice such subtleties,

  what interests him is—’

  ‘Gustafson! The customer is always right, never forget that.

  Anyway, this has nothing to do with music or costumes. The problem

  is something else: this Oneirofilm would rattle even a bull’s nerves!’

  Gustafson frowned.

  ‘Give me the script’, said Bradley, ‘and call the aesthetic technician.’

  He rifled back and forth through the pages, muttering unintelligi-

  bly, as if to reconnect the ideas.

  ‘All right’, he said at last, closing the bundle of pages suddenly. ‘The

  film starts with a long canoe trip, the protagonist is alone in a hostile, strange world, there’s a struggle with the river’s crocodiles, and the

  canoe capsizes. Then we have a trek through the jungle, rather tiring,

  a hand-to-hand fight with the natives. The protagonist is shut up in a

  hut, but during the night the chieftain’s daughter Aloa comes in, and

  provides him with directions to the temple. Then there’s the embrace

  with Aloa in the moonlight. Speaking of which, where’s Moa

  Mohagry?’

  The technician and the director moved apart, and Moa Mohagry, a

  very tall Somalian woman with sculpturesque curves, stepped for-

  ward.

  ‘You were great, Moa, but we’re going to have to do the scene over

  again.’

  ‘Again?’, Moa exclaimed. ‘I could do the scene over a hundred

  times, but I doubt it would get any better. I really gave it all I had,

  Bradley . . .’

  ‘That’s exactly what Gustafson’s mistake was. In this Oneirofilm the

  major scene is the last one, when the priestess seduces the protago-

  nist. All the other scenes are going to have to be toned down—they

  should serve as atmosphere and preparation. You can’t make an

  Oneirofilm composed of nothing but major scenes.’

  He turned to the aesthetic technician.

  ‘What’s the sensitivity index in the median sampling?’

  ‘In Aloa’s scene?’

  ‘Yes, in Aloa’s scene.’

  178

  Lino Aldani

  ‘84.5
.’

  ‘And in the scene of the last embrace?’

  ‘Just under 97.’

  Bradley shook his head.

  ‘Theoretically it would be okay, but in practice it’s all wrong. This

  morning I screened the scenes in the first part, one at a time. They’re

  perfect. But the film doesn’t end on the riverbank when Aloa gives

  herself to the protagonist. There are other, rather tiring episodes: the

  ones I just screened, then another trek through the jungle, and the

  fight with the slaves in the temple. By the time the consumer gets to

  this point in the film, he’s exhausted, his sensory receptivity is down

  to a minimum. The virgins’ erotic dance only partly solves the

  problem. I saw the film in two takes, and so I was able to appreciate

  the last embrace with Sophie in all its stylistic perfection. But, please, let’s not mix up absolute index with relative index. The crucial thing

  is relative index. I’m positive that if we distributed the film the way

  it’s put together now, the total receptivity index would fall by at least forty points, in spite of Sophie’s performance.

  ‘Bradley!’, the director implored. ‘Now you’re exaggerating.’

  ‘I’m not exaggerating’, the supervisor insisted in a polemical tone. ‘I

  repeat, the last scene is a masterpiece, but the consumer gets there

  tired and already satisfied, in such a condition that even the most

  luscious fruit would taste insipid to him. Gustafson, you can’t expect

  Sophie to accomplish miracles. The human nervous system has limits

  and laws.’

  ‘Then what should we do?’

  ‘Listen to me, Gustafson. I was a director for twenty-five years, and

  for six years I’ve been a supervisor. I think I’ve had enough

  experience to give you some advice. If you leave this Oneirofilm

  the way it is, I won’t pass it. I can’t. Beyond not pleasing the public, I would risk undermining the career of an actress like Sophie Barlow.

  Pay attention to me, dilute all the scenes except the last, cut the

  embrace with Aloa, reduce it to a mere scuffle.’

  Moa Mohagry started angrily. Bradley took her wrist and forced her

  to sit on the arm of his chair.

  ‘Listen to me, Moa. Don’t think that I want to take away the right

  moment for you to make a big hit. You have talent, I know it. The

  riverbank episode shows true zeal and temperament, there’s an

  innocent primitive passion there that would not fail to fascinate the

  consumer. You were fantastic, Moa. But I can’t ruin a film that’s cost

 

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