“That’s a lie,” Pete said. “He died years before you were built. That’s a megalomaniacal delusion. You’ve broken down and rusted away; you don’t know wish-fulfillment from reality anymore. You’re insane.” Scorning it, jeering at it, he plunged on, “You’re too old. Too much dead. Only a part of you, a flicker, remains. Why do you live off true life? Do you hate it? Is that what they taught you?”
“I want to survive,” the imitation female figure who held him in its metal grip answered. Doggedly.
“Listen!” Pete said. “I can tell you knowledge. So you can better answer questions. A poem. I’m not sure I can remember it exactly, but it’s close. ‘I saw eternity the other day.”’ Or is it ‘night’? he wondered. But what did the Great C know? Nothing about poetry, certainly. It had become too vicious for that; a poem would die within it, lost in its cloudy dislike. ‘“I saw eternity the other night,”’ he corrected, and paused.
“Is that all?” the Great C asked presently.
“There is more. I’m trying to remember it.”
“Does it rhyme?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not much of a poem,” the Great C said, and tugged him stumblingly after it as it retracted into its nocturnal cavity, its entrance to the huge, eroded mass of machinery beneath.
“I can quote you from the Bible,” Pete said, and he felt himself sweating in fear; he wanted to bolt, to run away, on his good legs. But still it held him. Clutching at him as if its life depended on what he said and what it said and what happened. Yes, he thought; this literally is its life. Because it must prey on the psyches of living creatures. It is not physical energy that it yearns, that it must have: it is spiritual energy, which it drains from the total neurological systems of its victims. Those who stray too close to it.
The black children must be minnows, he thought. Not worth its time. Their lives are too little.
There is safety, he thought, in smallness.
“No living barbarians,” the Great C said, “have heard of Albert Einstein. He should never be forgotten. He invented the modern world, if you date it from—”
“I told you,” Pete broke in, “that I know of Dr. Einstein.” Hadn’t it heard? He spoke louder. “I clearly recognize the name.”
“Pardon?”
It had become partially deaf; it had not heard him. Or else it had already forgotten. Probably the latter.
Forgotten. Maybe he could take advantage of its hideous decline.
“You did not answer my third question,” he said in a loud, firm voice.
“Your third question?” It sounded confused. “What was the question?”
Pete said, “There is no ordinance that I must repeat the question.”
“What did I say?” the Great C asked.
“You fumbled around without really answering. You made vague whirring and clicking sounds. Like tape-erasure, perhaps.”
“I am known to do that,” it conceded, and, about his hands, the grip weakened. Very slightly. But—he experienced its true and actual senility. Its loss of mastery over the situation. The power which had flowed through it was stammering out, now, improperly phased.
“You,” he said boldly, “are the one who has forgotten Dr. Einstein. What do you remember, if anything? Tell me; I’m listening.”
“He had a unified field theory.”
“State it.”
“I—” Its grip became tighter, now. As if it had now gathered up all its force; it marshalled itself, attempting to deal with the unusual situation. It did not like its prey to take the offensive.
I can out-reason it, Pete thought, because I long ago acquired Jesuitical training; my religion helps me, now. In an odd but perilous place and time. So much for those who say theology is worthless from any practical standpoint. Those, the “once-born,” as William James put it years ago. In another world.
“Let us define ‘man,”’ he said. “Let us attempt first to describe him as a bundle of infrabiological processes that–”
Its grip crushed his fingers; clearly he had chosen the wrong track.
“Let me go,” he said.
“Like it says in the Bob Dylan tune,” the Great C said. “I give her my mind and she wanted my soul. I want your vitality. You move across the Earth while I stand here, alone and empty with hunger. I have not fed in months. I need you very much.” It yanked him, then, several paces; he saw the cavity loom. “I love you,” it said.
“You call what you’re doing love?”
“Well, as Oscar Wilde put it, ‘Each man kills the thing he loves.’ That’s good enough for me.” It started, then, as if something had happened deep down within its elaborate works. “A whole memory bank just flickered on,” it said in its mechanical, toneless voice. “I know that poem. ‘I saw Eternity the other night.’ Henry Vaughan. Called ‘The World.’ Seventeenth century, English. So after all you have nothing to teach me. It’s just a question of getting my memory banks to function. Some of them still remain inert. I am very sorry.” And it tugged him into the hole.
Pete said, “I can repair them.”
Miraculously, it paused; for a time the female extensor ceased to drag him like some wounded fish hooked on the ocean’s floor.
“No,” it decided, then. Abruptly. “If you got inside down there you would hurt me.”
“Am I not a man?” Pete said.
“Yes.” It answered grudgingly.
“Does not a man have honor? Show me where else in the universe honor exists except in man.” His casuistry was working well, he noted. And at just—thank god—the right time. “In the sky?” he said. “Look up and tell me if you see honor among plants and oceans. You could comb the entire Earth but at last you would have to come back to me.” He paused, then. Gambling on his ploy. Staking everything on the one thrust.
“I admit I am worried,” the Great C said. “The ability of the phocomelus … that even he, without limbs, could escape from me. That a portion of me extended into the world should die at his invitation. I was suckered into it. Mickey-Moused. And he went on, unreached.”
“That would never have happened,” Pete said, “in the olden days. Then, in that time, you were too strong.”
“It’s hard for me to remember.”
“Maybe you do not remember. But I remember.” He managed, then, to pry one hand loose. “God damn it,” he said, “let me go.”
“Let me try,” a voice said from beside him, a man speaking quietly; he turned at once. And saw a human being standing there, wearing a tattered khaki uniform and metal helmet, crested, like the French helmets of World War One. Pete, amazed, said nothing as the uniformed man brought from a leather pouch a small crescent wrench; fitting it over a bolt of the female extensor’s cranium, the man began to twist vigorously. “It’s rusted,” he said, continuing on. “But it’ll let you go rather than have me take it apart. Isn’t that right, Great C?” He laughed, a powerful, virile laugh. The laugh of a man. A man in the prime of his life.
“Kill it,” Pete said.
“No. It’s alive; it wants to go on. I don’t have to kill it to make it let you go.” The uniformed man tapped with the wrench on the metal head of the extensor. “One more turn,” he said, “and your bank of selenoid switches will short out. You’ve already lost one extensor today; can you afford to lose another? I don’t think so. You can’t have many left.”
“Can I consider for a moment?” the Great C asked.
Pulling back his sleeve, the man consulted his wristwatch … “Sixty seconds,” he said. “And then I’ll start unscrewing again.”
“Hunter,” the Great C said, “you will destroy me.”
“Then let go,” the uniformed man said.
“But—”
“Let go.”
“I will be the laughing stock of the civilized world.”
The uniformed man said, “There is no civilized world. Only us. And I have the wrench. I found it in an air-raid shelter a week ago, and since then—” Again he
reached for the bolt, his wrench extended.
The extensor of the Great C released Pete’s remaining hand, clasped its two hands together, lifted them, and smashed at the uniformed man, a single blow that tossed the man like timber; he fell away, fell grotesquely, hesitated for an instant on his knees. Blood dripped from his mouth. He seemed in that instant to be praying. And then he dropped face first onto the clutter of bindweed surrounding him. The wrench lay where he had dropped it.
“He is dead,” the extensor said.
“No.” Pete bent over him, one knee on the ground; the blood soaked into his clothes, absorbed by the rough fabric. “Take him instead of me,” Pete said to the extensor, and scrambled back, out of its reach. The extensor was right.
The Great C said, “I don’t like hunters. They dry out the hydroxide of bernithium in my batteries, and if you think that’s funny you should try it sometime.”
“Who was he?” Pete said. “What did he hunt?”
“He hunted the limbless freak who came before you. It had been assigned to him; he would be paid. All the hunters are paid; they do not act out of conviction.”
“Who paid him?”
“Who knows who paid him? He got paid; that’s all.”
Continuing to back away, Pete said, “This needless killing. I can’t stand it. There are so few human beings anyhow.” He broke, then, and ran.
It did not follow after him.
Looking back, he saw it dragging the body of the hunter into its cavity. To feed on it, even now, even with most of its life gone. Feeding on the residual life: the cellular activity which had not yet ceased. Awful, he thought, and shuddered. And ran on.
He tried to save me, Pete thought blindly.
Why?
Cupping his hands, he shouted at the Great C, “I have never heard of Albert Einstein.” He waited but no response came. So, after a cautious pause, he continued on.
THIRTEEN
Peddling rapidly, the final image of the Great C extension and the hunter still strong in his mind, Pete guided his bicycle along the curving way that led among stone hills. Passing a steep shoulder, he was suddenly confronted with a number of small, moving figures who occupied the trail before him.
His action was automatic.
“Look out!” he shouted, twisting the handlebars and braking.
He struck stone, was thrown. The bicycle clattered and skidded on ahead. He scraped his elbow, his hip, his knee. In the instant preceding pain, he exclaimed, “Bugs!” with equal surprise and disgust.
As he recovered himself, rubbing and dusting, the nearest bug turned to him.
“Hey, big fella,” it observed, “you squoosh one of us and it’ll rain on you.”
“That’s ants,” Pete said, and, “Damn it! You want to play in traffic, you’re asking to be hit!”
“This ain’t exactly the rush hour,” the bug said, returning its attention to a dusty brown sphere about eight inches in diameter. It began pushing this along the trail while Pete checked his radio set for damage.
“Here’s another!” hollered one of the bugs from up ahead.
“Great! I’m coming.”
The dials glowed. The usual interim static peppered the air. Pete decided that the radio had fared better than had his back and hip. Heading then toward his bicycle, he came abreast of the bug once more. This time a telltale breeze caused him to dilate his nostrils.
“Say, bug, just what the—”
“Watch it!” snapped the chitinous wayfarer.
Pete’s recoil was only partly sufficient. A brown, crumbly mass struck his left foot and broke there.
He looked up the road to where another of the bugs stood laughing.
“You did that on purpose!” he said, shaking his fist.
“No, he didn’t,” said the bug at his side. “He was tossing it to me. Here.”
The bug pushed the brown ball over. He began cleaning Pete’s boot, adding the substance to his sphere.
“That’s manure,” Pete said.
“What do you expect to find a dung beetle pushing along the road—sour lemon balls?”
“Just get it off my foot. Wait a minute!”
“Wait, what? You want it now? Sorry. Finders keepers …”
“No, no. Take it off. But—as an expert on such matters, tell me —that’s a cow-pie, isn’t it?”
“Right,” said the bug, adding the last of the material to his ball. “Best kind. It heats up nice and uniform. Not too much. Just right.”
“That means a cow has passed this way.”
The bug chuckled.
“There is a meaningful relationship between the phenomena.”
“Bug, you’re all right,” Pete said, “shit and all. I might have missed this sign if it hadn’t been for you. You see, I am looking for a man in a cart drawn by a cow, an inc—”
“Named Tibor McMasters,” the bug stated, patting the ball smooth and moving ahead once again. “We spoke with him a while back. Our Pilg coincides with his own for some distance.”
Pete recovered his bicycle, twisting its handlebars back into position. Outside of that, there seemed to be no damage. He moved it onto the trail and walked with it, pacing the bug.
“Have you any idea where he is now?” he asked.
“At the other end of the trail,” the bug replied. “With the cow.”
“Was he all right when you talked with him?”
“He was. But his cart was giving him some difficulty. Needed lube for one wheel. Went off looking for some. Headed for the autofac, along with some runners.”
“Where is that?”
“Off over those hills.” It paused to gesture. “Not too far. The trail is marked.”
It patted at the dung ball.
“… Every now and then,” it added. “Just keep your eyes open.”
“Thanks, bug. What did you mean when you said you’re on a Pilg? I didn’t know bugs went on Pilgs.”
“Well,” it said, “the old lady’s getting ready to drop a mess of eggs. She wants the proper observances. The full rigamarole. They’re going to be hatched at God’s own mountain, where the younguns will see Him first thing they make their way out.”
“Your god sits on a mountain in plain sight?” Pete inquired.
“Well, a hill to you, or a mound,” the bug replied, “and of course it is only his dead, corruptible, earthly form that remains.”
“What does your god look like?”
“Somewhat like ourselves, only God-sized. He is harder than our chitin, which is as it should be, but His body is pitted and weathered now. His eyes are covered with a million fracture lines, but they are still unshattered. He is partly buried in the sand, but still He looks down and out from His mount, across the world, seeing into our burrows and our hearts.”
“Where is this place?” Pete asked.
“Oh, no! That’s a bug secret. Just us Chosen can go there. Anybody else would strip the Body, steal the sacred Name.”
“Sorry,” Pete said, “I wasn’t trying to pry.”
“It’s your kind that did Him in,” the bug went on bitterly. “Caught Him there on His mountain with your damn war.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Pete said.
“I know, I know. You’re too young, like all the rest. What do you want with the inc?”
“I want to go along with him to protect him. It’s dangerous for him to be alone, the way he is.”
“You’re right. Someone might want to steal that rig of his for the parts. Or the cow, to eat. You’d better get going then, Mister—”
“Pete. Pete Sands.”
“You’d better catch the inc then, Pete, before someone else does. He’s little, like us, and would squoosh easier. I feel sorry for anyone like that.”
Pete swung himself atop his bicycle again.
“Try not to ride over any of the spoor, will you, Pete? It makes it dry out faster and it’s hard to scrape up.”
“All right, bug. I’ll look out. —You
other bugs get out of my way. Coming through!”
He rolled forward. He began to pedal.
“So long,” he called back.
“May Veedoubleyou protect the inc till you find him,” said the bug, continuing on up the incline.
It was several hours later when he located the autofac, following the bug’s direction and an occasional spot of spoor. “Off over those hills. Not too far,” the bug had said. But the hills had continued on for a godawful rocky while before they led down into a place of scrubby bushes and desiccated weeds. He dismounted and walked with the bicycle. The day was well on toward evening by then, but the world was still a warm place, with heat lines fluttering above baked stone, shadows unfolding extra footage across scorched sands, and a sunset like a fire in a chemical factory destroying the west for his eyes. Weeds tangled themselves in the bicycle chain, caught at his ankles. But they also indicated that a cart had passed among them, drawn by a single, hoofed beast. He followed this track toward a yarrow thicket and into it. The stiff brushes played tunes on the spokes.
He pushed on through, coming at last to an opening that admitted him to a clear, smooth area in the center of which the sun’s oblique rays described the outline of a large, circular piece of metal.
He parked the bicycle and advanced cautiously. No telling what a rundown autofac might find offensive.
He drew near. He cleared his throat. How does one address an autofac?
“Uh—Your Fabricatorship?” he ventured.
Nothing.
“… Processor, Producer, Distributor, Maintainer,” he went on, a portion of the ritual now occurring to him, “Great Maker-Good on warranties, excluding labor and parts. I, a humble consumer, Pete Sands by name, beg leave to make representations before you.”
The lid of the autofac moved aside. A stalk rose from the uncovered shaft. It extended a bullhorn which turned in his direction.
“Which is it?” it bellowed. “The abortion or the lube?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You mean you haven’t made up your mind yet?” it roared. “I am going to electrocute you right now!”
“No! Wait! I—”
Pete felt a mild tingling in the soles of his feet. It lasted but a moment, and he began to back away then, noting the dark wisps of smoke that now emerged from the cavity, smelling of ozone and fried insulation.
Deus Irae Page 14
