John Racham

by Dark Planet

  And, as he himself had said, when you're going to die, all bets are off. It was natural then, that she should cling to him, want him, see their relationship as something more than just the throw of fate. But it wasn't like that for him. She was a beautiful girl, true, and under that civilized exterior so recently peeled away she had qualities he liked. But it was no more than that; no more than affection and sympathy. Person to person, she was more alien to him than these silent natives gliding through the dark jungle all around him. He couldn't sense her feelings, her emotions, the way he could touch these others. And that was something to marvel at as they trudged along, finding some obscure way in and out through the standing trees, gradually but steadily making their way uphill.

  He had never thought of himself as psychic in any sense. Quite the reverse. Always he had known extreme difficulty in understanding other people's motives and values. He could understand words and observe actions, but when it came to knowing why people did what they did he had always been stuck with the sense of being alien. Different wavelength, he had called it. Only that was an explanation that didn't explain anything at all. She, Christine, had said it was ironic. How little she knew how truly ironic it was. After a whole lifetime of being odd man out, he now felt at home and akin to an alien race of jungle savages, who had no right to exist at all according to all the best authorities. Yet he couldn't blame her for wanting the nearness of his presence and the comfort of his maleness. And it would have been unnecessarily cruel to remind her that in any other setting she wouldn't have had a second thought

  65 for him nor he for her. In the face of death, he mused, nothing seems to be very important anymore.

  And now the way really was uphill, a steep climb between the looming walls of a gorge. Christine began to sway and lean on him heavily. He understood her fatigue. His own legs were beginning to fail, and his stomach had been gnawing at him for some time. But he had one advantage denied her and he shared it now.

  "Not much further, Christine," he muttered, holding her up. "We're almost home. Not much more to go."

  And it was true. Within minutes the narrow zigzag path opened out onto a flat area, and there came a slow, scented breeze that was warm but wonderfully refreshing. Ahead of them a pool shimmered in the rock, fed by a slim waterfall beyond, a silver ribbon of water that tumbled down the steep side of a cliff pocked with caves and graced with bushes and creepers. And people came running, old men and women, youths, toddlers, all in a mental deluge of warm reunion, rejoicing and eager anticipation of a feast. And this was home, in a sense Query had never known. He was swamped in it, excited and shaken by the instant acceptance, the friendliness, the complex crosscurrents of chatter and gossip, the frankness of the comments on these strangers, these weird ones . . . but all in friendship.

  "That water looks inviting." Christine mumbled. "Oh, to be clean and cool again! Help me, Stephen." She had no need to urge him. The returning hunters had laid down their burdens and were trotting toward it. He saw old Evans being half carried along. He hugged Christine and they ran together and waded in; it was wonderful to feel it washing away the aches, the grime and sweat. Warm, it was, but clean and stimulating. Query felt his spirits rise, rnost of his strength coming back, as he wallowed and went under and luxuriated in it. Beside him, Christine ducked under and came up to blow and laugh and shake the water from her face.

  "I needed that!" she sighed. "It's wonderful to be clean again. I suppose it wouldn't do to drink it?"

  "Not here. Over there, by the fall. Come on." He took her hand and they waded across, shoulder deep, to where the silver rope of water plunged from the rock into the

  66pool. He stood under it, let it fall on his face and into his mouth, and drank as if his insides were sponge. Then she shoved him aside and did the same; and he had time to look at her and marvel. The short hair clung boyishly to her skull, but there was nothing boyish about the rest of her as she stood up out of the water and reveled in the splashing flow. She had a glow, a sheen on her skin. She was really beautiful, lovely and desirable—purely primitive, he thought—and she shook her head, and laughed, and met his eye before he could shield his thoughts . . . and the rosy color came instandy to flood her cheeks. In that instant she knew what he was thinking, and there was another marvel for him to puzzle over as they joined hands and made their way out and onto the mossy bankside. Purely primitive. Body to body, instinct to instinct . . . and who was he to say there could be anything more than that?

  As if to rebuke him, his stomach knotted into a sudden savage twist of pain, so that he bent over and clutched his belly. In a moment she was down with him, her face white and strained, holding herself.

  "The water!" she groaned through clenched teeth. "We shouldn't have ... oh God . . . it's burning me!"

  "Caught all ways," he muttered. "Starve, die of thirst ... or be eaten alive from the inside. Nothing we can do. Just bear it!"

  Just when it seemed he had to scream, the spasm passed, leaving him limp and shaken. She was rocking to and fro, hugging her knees and groaning, shaking her head. Then, all at once, she fell back, straightened out and arched herself up and away from the moss in a straining wrench, groaned and then slumped flat, panting heavily. "Oh, Stephen!" she moaned. "I can't stand anymore of that. It was hellish!"

  "I know. I wish there was something ..." he looked about desperately, wondering if his mental need would strike any chord now. Would these people understand sickness? Would they be able to help? Something was happening. They were all starting to gather in a rough semicircle around the cave wall, and he got a blurred impression of some kind of ceremony. Then a native woman came up to him, holding in each hand a gourd-shaped something.

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  He knew it was something to drink, well meant, helpful. He took one, and the other . . . and the woman smiled and went away. It was a gourd, and full. What's to lose? he argued, and lifted it, tilted it, let the stuff touch his lips. It seemed to evaporate inside his mouth, straight into the soft tissues, spreading a glow and a tingle . . . and a blessed relief.

  "Here!" he handed her the other one. "It may be just local brew, or anesthetic—or plain poison, but it certainly feels good inside."

  He took another sip and the warm goodness spread further, soothed his aches. He watched her come down from a second and third sip and a swallow, saw the color come back to her cheeks and a glow in her eyes.

  "Powerful stuff," she murmured, looking at the gourd with respect. "We'll probably get high on this!"

  "We have a choice?" he demanded, and she shook her head and tilted the gourd again. He copied her, and came down feeling light-headed and good.

  "Better than gut-rot, anytime. If this is the way to die, I'll take it." He laughed at her as if he had said something witty, and she laughed in turn, scrambling around to sit by him, to put her arm around him and hug him close. All around them the natives were settling by pairs, completing the semicircle, facing the cave wall as if about to watch a performance of some kind. "Curtain up!" he said, fondling her. "Last act!"

  And then the clapping started, perfectly in rhythm, to a steady beat, and the lights came on, spreading swiftly up the walL up the steep slope, rippling and glowing with quiet fire in every imaginable hue and shade of color, a vast living rainbow. Query held his breath. He felt Christine stir and sigh, looked aside to see the colored radiance painting her face and throat and breasts. She turned to him in ecstasy.

  "Isn't it wonderful? Heavenly beautiful. Oh, Stephen! To live here, with beauty like this just for the asking! Such radiance! What lucky people they are to have all this!" She turned back to it, glorying in the display, dazzled by it. The clapping was augmented now by a wordless chant that stirred fresh combinations in the orchestral color. She gasped as if overcome by her feelings. "It's too much!

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  Too much lovelinessl" He glanced away from her delight to look at the couples around him and saw that they were finding joy in each other, those who weren't clapping.
She saw, too, and turned back to him with wordless invitation in her eyes, her lips offered, her arms enfolding him, drawing him down and down.

  IX

  THE WORDLESS CHANTTNG, the thudding primitive beat, the incredible loveliness of that living color display, and the potency of the brew all conspired together to lift them into an urgent ecstasy, that soared and soared, again and again, until they were both utterly exhausted, completely drowned and drained of all tension, only half-conscious, floating in a mist of soft weariness. The chant-and-clap drummed on, washing over them, and the glorious rainbow hillside shone down . . . until, all at once, he was aware of something new, something different, something cool, clear, electric, that needled through the warm complacency which drugged him. He sat up, peering stupidly, wondering—and the clap-beat surged up, grew fast and furious—and he felt a swelling tension that was almost painful.

  And there, right in the focus of the circle, grew a shimmer of white: a transparent ovoid that hovered and shone. The native chant became words, rolling in echoes against the cliffside.

  "Hel-seeee!Hel-seeee!"

  Query stared, felt his back hair lift, as the shimmer slowly grew more solid, more substantial, took on a shape. He had that strange sense of soft, feather fingers touching his mind, groping among his thoughts. The shape was clear now, distinct. A human shape. A woman, tall and imperious but all pearly glow, like some Greek statue carved in radiance. The chant swelled louder, more impassioned:

  "Hel-seeeeee!Hel-seeeee!"

  He shared something of the overwhelming awe. A supernatural person ... a goddessl He wanted to shout and

  69 feel afraid along with the rest, but that tickle in his mind, light as gossamer, stopped him. Held him. All at once the uncanny visitor raised her arms, spread them wide. The chanting and clapping stopped as if cut off by a switch. There was absolute silence, a hush that echoed. Then she lowered one arm, pointed the other, and Query heard her quite positively in his head.

  "You! Come! Come to me! Come!"

  There was never even a question of refusal. He struggled up at once, helpless as a puppet on a string, swaying unsteadily, distantly aware that he was drunk, but imbued with only one thought. He started shambling forward, weaving in and out' among the breathless natives. The hillside had faded into gloom against which the goddesslike woman stood out in a white glow like a human candle flame. He stumbled on, having trouble focusing his eyes and more trouble believing what he saw. She was tall, almost as tall as he was. And slim yet not frail. Fully a woman. Yet white like pearl, even to the clustering curls of her hair. Only her eyes had color, were glow gold flames that drew him on and on, controlling him with power that had nothing of hurt in it, nothing angry, just power. Until he stood, swaying, within touching distance of her, mouth stupidly agape. There came a monologue inside his head, in a cold, clear precise voice.

  Not one of us. And yet . . . and yet . . . what are you? Why are your thoughts so confused?

  "I'm drunk!" he confessed muzzily. "Drunk on the local brew. Strong stuff. And sick, too!" She understood something of it, he knew.

  You are in pain? Distress of some kind? There was just the ghost of an expression on her face to go with the words in his head. Smooth. Alabaster . . . that was the word he had been looking for. Beauty incarnate ... or delirium? And in that moment all the warm comfort of the drink ran out of him, all the anesthetic, the false glow . . . and he folded and fell, knotted breathless by the hot wire agonies in his belly, straining to curl in on himself, to breathe, to bear the screaming pain of it For one hideous breath . . . and then the cold, imperious authority of her struck through the cloud of agony, pushed the pains away—not right away, but just there, just out of

  70 reach, so that he held quite still not daring to move, feeling the sudden sweat breaking out all over his body. And then her voice again.

  Be still. There is no pain now.

  He held it for another breath, and she was right. He let go, fell flat, rolled over,on his back and lay there looking up at her, as drained as if he had been passed through a wringer. She inclined her head to look down at him curiously. It was a living force, that curiosity. Then she spoke again.

  You will come with me. I wish to know more about you! Then came the crowning insanity of all, as she stooped, crouched, took his hand firmly, with a real, flesh-and-blood hand of her own, and straightened up. He lifted, up and away from the damp moss, as if filled with air or something lighter. Up like a bird, but a bird that could fly with neither wings nor effort, not stirring a breath of air in passing. Up, so that he could stare down and see the silent natives, the hillside, the shimmering pool, all dwindling fast away down there, then lost in the mist. Alone in trackless mist with only the white goddess-woman and her curiously impersonal stare, her unbelievable perfection of shape and form.

  I'm deadl he thought. This is it, the final delirium. Snatched up to Heaven by an angel. That native brew must be really powerful stuff I

  But it was rationalization, and he didn't believe it. He believed what he was seeing, no matter how incredible it was. And he knew, somehow, that she was not aware of these thoughts of his. He knew that it was more effort for her to speak into his mind than to fly away with him like this. He knew many things, as if he stood near a vast storehouse of wisdom and some of it was leaking off at him. There was no sense of motion in him, only in the mist that whirled past. Then there were patches of dark, a vast concourse of mighty treetops, a forest; they stooped down into it like an eagle pair, swooping through the leaves and branches to home in on one tree out of all the rest, like birds to a nest.

  As gently as though on tiptoe, he stood on a broad branch. He walked with her hand in his, her shoulder to his, along the branch and right into the heart of the tree.

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  And there were bright colors here. Tiny starlights on the walls, hanging lanterns that shone but looked like bell-flowers. And a softness that was firm for him to sit on. And then lie back on, and stretch out. And her glow gold eyes coming closer, holding his, drowning him in their inscrutable depths.

  The rest was dream upon dream, some gloriously good, others temfyingly black and bad, and yet others that bewildered him completely. None were clear as to detail but more as if he had to hurry through them, to skim and digest and catalogue the contents. It was more like thumbing through an unending series of lesson books and instructions, learning, struggling to leam, and all the while conscious of his laggard ability, the relentless drive to do better.

  The bad ones were horrible, all about himself and everything that was wrong with him, full of aches and pains and twisted spots, things he would rather not have touched; yet he had no choice but to struggle and fight his way through. There were a lot of those.

  The good ones were about him, too, but not himself alone. Always there was someone else close, someone warm and wonderful, holding him safe, cradling, comforting and caressing him, exciting him, inspiring him with leaping strength and power and exultation, making him happy, whole and well. Those ones were a kind of delight, a sort of reward for doing well.

  But the others, the problem ones, were baffling. Fingers in his mind picking and turning over the pages of his life, sorting them into words and questions and ideas and more questions, until he felt all jumbled and scattered and argued over. All fragments. All dreams. Nothing in any detail that he could cling to. Wild bits of imagination. And the strong conviction of passing time, a long time. A lifetime, in a way.

  Query became slowly aware that he was awake. That he was flat on his back and comfortable, with his eyes shut . . . but awake. Not dreaming. In that moment all the million scattered fragments of all those dreams rose like a swirl of invisible dust and blew away. He opened his eyes and saw a blue bell-like flower shining down on him with its own cool light. It stood out from the pale yellow wall,

  72 as if it was growing there on a slim stem, and hung down shining on him.

  "I think you are well now, Stephen Query." The voice wa
s slightly hesitant over the shapes of the words but clear and confident otherwise. A quiet voice, yet it seemed to sing. Over to his left. He rolled his head to look. She was seated there, across the room from him, about eight feet away and quite at ease. Seated in a curious bowl-shaped seat that seemed to be part of the yellow wall and made of the same stuff. Feet planted firmly apart, hands on her knees, back against the support, her face calm, only those gold eyes with any hint of life. She might have been a statue in pale pearl, as before, but now there was no visible radiance from her. Above her head another bell-shaped flower, growing from the wall, shed its light down over her head and shoulders.

  He moved, sat up, swung his legs over the side of the thing he lay on and put them down on the floor. It struck warm and somehow fibrous, like a smooth carpet against his bare feet. A quick glance showed him that he was naked. So was she, and it seemed unthinkable otherwise. He looked at her again, curiously, really looking this time, aware that he was not giving any offense. Her face told him nothing, yet he knew she was patiently waiting for him to adjust. A perfect face, finely chiseled, a study in mild curiosity. Ageless, unlined, smooth. Her skin, all of her, was white as milk, and yet with the glow and sheen of abundant health, needing no color at all to enhance it.

  She sat quite still, as if there was all the time in the world for him to stare, her slow gentle breath lifting her breasts, that might have been arrogant, overabundant, even coarse, on another woman but were all part of her flawless shape, her completely. There was just the suspicion of a blush of pink at her nipples and lips, and her fingernails. And not a hair on her body apart from the clustered white curls on her head. And he knew she was by far the most beautiful, most wonderful, most alien creature he had ever seen. And he was afraid. He looked into her eyes.