“...resting . . . so-o-o relaxed . . . can’t blink your eyes ... try ... no matter how hard you try. .
Kinross felt a tingling in the hands and feet of the body that could not blink its eyes. But of course. . .
“. . . jaws are stuck ... try hard as you can . . . can’t open . . . hand coming up ... up and up and up . . . as a feather ... up and up . . . try . . . hard as you can . .. Kinross, try to put your hand down!”
The hand floated in Kinross’ field of view. It had something to do with him. He willed it to drop but it would not obey. His vision was pulsating to the rhythm of the swells and the fading in and out of Kruger’s voice. First he saw Kruger far off but clear and distinct, like through the wrong way of a telescope, and the voice was clear, burbling, like water falling down rocks. Then the fat man rushed closer and closer, looming larger and larger, becoming more hazy and indistinct as he filled the sky, and the voice faded out. Then the back swing. . .
“. . . hands going down . . . relaxed on the soft, restful wood ... all relaxed . . . almost ready now . . . stay relaxed until I give you the signal .. . hear this now: for the signal I will clap my hands twice and say, ‘Act.’ You will know what do and all together you will do it . . . take me with you . . . each one, reach out a hand and take me along . . . blind where you see, deaf where you hear . . . must not fail to take me . . . remember that.
“... sea is gone, sky is gone, nothing here but the boat and a gray mist.Kinross, what do you see?”
Gray mist swirling, black boat, no color, no detail, a sketch in a dream ... no motion ... no more pulsation of things . . . the endless plash and murmur of the voice, and then another voice, “I see gray mist all around.”
“Gray mist all around, and in the mist now one thing. One thing you see. Silva, what do you see?”
“A face. I see a face.”
“Fay, you see the face. Describe the face.”
“A giant’s face. Bigger than the boat. It is worried and stern.”
“Kerbeck, you see the face. How is it shaped?”
“Round and fat. A leedle fuzz of beard there is.”
“Garcia, you see the face. Tell us the colors.”
“Eyes blue. Hair almost white. Skin smooth and white. Lips thin and red.”
“Kinross, you see the face. Describe it in detail.”
“Thin eyebrows, high arched, white against white. Broad forehead. Bulging cheeks. Flat nose, large, flaring nostrils. Wide mouth, thin lips.”
“Bo Bo, you see the face. Who is it, Bo Bo? Tell us who it is.”
“It is you, Boss Kruger.”
“Yes,” said the Face, the great lips moving. “Now you are ready. Now you are close. Remember the signal. You have let go of yourselves by giving me control. Now I will do for you what no man can do for himself: I will set you free. Remember the signal. Remember your orders.
“You are thirsty. Thirst claws in your throats, tears at your guts. You have to drink. You don’t care, don’t think. You would drink the blood of your children and of your fathers and not care. Water, cold, wet, splashing water, rivers of water, all around you, waiting for you, green trees and grass and water.
“You already know how to get to it. You always knew, from before time you knew, and now you remember and you are ready for the signal. All together and take me with you. You know what to do. Not in words, not in thoughts, not in pictures, deeper, older, far underneath those, you know. Before the word, before the thought, there was the act.”
The great mouth gaped on the final word and green light flashed in its inner darkness. The mists swirled closer and Kinross floated there on an intolerable needle point of thirst. Great eyes blue-blazing, with dreadful intensity, the Face spoke again:
“in the beginning is the act!”
It shouted the last word tremendously. There was a sharp double clap of thunder and green lightnings played in the cavernous mouth which yawned wide on the word until it filled the field of vision. The green lightnings firmed into trees, mossy rocks, a brawling stream . . . Kinross tugged the heavy body after him by one arm, splash, splash, in the cold, clear water.
* * * *
Kinross drank greedily. The coolness flowed into him and out along his arteries and the fire died. He could see the others kneeling in or beside the clear stream running smoothly over rounded pebbles and white sand. Then a great weariness came over him. He drank again briefly, lay down on the smooth turf beside the stream and slept.
When he awoke, Garcia was sitting beside him eating bananas and offered him some. Kinross looked around while he was eating. Level ground extended perhaps ten yards on either side of the little stream; then convexly curved banks rose abruptly for a hundred feet. In the diffuse, watery light the land was green with grass and the darker green of trees and bushes. The colors were flat and homogeneous. There were no random irregularities on the land such as gullies or rock outcrops. The trees were blurred masses never quite in direct view. The grass was blurred and vague. It was like the time he had had his eyes dilated for refraction. But he could see Garcia plainly enough.
Kinross shook his head and blinked. Garcia chuckled.
“Don’t let it bother you,” he said. “Why be curious?”
“Can’t help it, I guess,” Kinross replied. Then he spied Kruger’s supine form to his left and said, “Let’s wake Kruger.”
“Tried it already,” the Mexican said. “He ain’t dead and he ain’t alive. Go see what you think.”
Kinross felt a pang of alarm. Kruger was needed here. He rose, walked over and examined the body. It was warm and pliant but unresponsive. He shook his head again.
Curses broke out behind the indefinite shrubbery on the bank across the stream. Fay’s voice. Then the little man came into view beside the huge Negro. They had papayas and guavas.
“Kruger still asleep?” Fay asked. “Damn him and his world. Everything I pick in it is full of worm-holes and rotten spots.”
“Try some of my bananas here,” Garcia said. Fay ate one and muttered reluctant gratification.
“We’ve got to do something about Kruger,” Kinross said. “Let’s have a conference.”
“Silva! Kerbeck! Come in!” the Mexican shouted.
The two came down the bank. Kerbeck was eating a large turnip with the aid of his belt knife. Silva fingered his rosary.
“Kruger’s in a kind of trance, I think,” Kinross said. “We’ll have to build a shelter for him.”
“There won’t be any weather here,” Silva said. “No day, no night, no shadows. This place is unholy. It isn’t real.”
“Nonsense,” Kinross objected. “It’s real enough.” He kicked at the turf, without leaving any mark on it.
“No!” Silva cried. “Nothing’s really here. I can’t get close to a tree trunk. They slide away from me.” Kerbeck and Fay mumbled in agreement.
“Let’s catch Silva a tree,” Garcia said with a laugh. “That little one over there. Spread out in a circle around it and keep looking at it so it can’t get away.”
Kinross suspected from their expressions that the others shared his own fearful excitement, his sense of the forbidden. All but the mocking Garcia. They surrounded the tree and Kinross could see Kerbeck beyond it well enough, but the smooth, green trunk did seem to slide out of the way of a focused glance.
“We got it for you, Silva,” Garcia said. “Go in now. Take hold of it and smell it.”
Silva approached the tree gingerly. His wrinkled old face had a wary look and his lips were moving. “You’re not me, tree,” he said softly. “You’ve got to be yourself by yourself. You’re too smooth and too green.”
Suddenly the old man embraced the trunk and held his face a foot away, peering intently. His voice rose higher. “Show me spots and cracks and dents and rough places and bumps. . .”
Fear thrilled Kinross. He heard a far-off roaring noise and the luminous overcast descended in gray swirls. The light dimmed and the flat greens of the landscape turned grayish.
“Silva, stop it!” he shouted.
“Knock it off, Silva!” cried the Mexican.
“... show me whiskers and spines and wrinkles and lines and pits. . .” Silva’s voice, unheeding, rose higher in pitch.
The mists swirled closer. There came a light, slapping, rustling sound. Then a voice spoke, clear and silvery, out of the air above them.
“Silva! Stop that, Silva, or I’ll blind you!”
“Unholy!” Silva shrieked. “I will look through you!”
“Silva! Be blind!” commanded the silvery voice. It seemed almost to sing the words.
Silva choked off and stood erect. Then he clapped his hands to his eyes and screamed, “I’m blind. Shipmates, it’s dark! Isn’t it dark? The sun went out. . .”
Kinross, trembling, walked over to Silva as the mists dispersed again.
“Easy, Silva. You’ll be all right soon,” he comforted the sobbing old man.
“That voice,” Garcia said softly. “I know that voice.”
“Yes,” said Bo Bo. “It was Boss Kruger.”
* * * *
Okay, Kinross and Garcia agreed, no looking closely at anything. The awareness of the others seemed already so naturally unfocused that they could hardly understand the meaning of the taboo. Kinross did not try to explain. Fay proposed that he stay to look after Silva and Kruger, provided that the others would bring food, since all that he picked for himself was inedible.
“Kinross, let’s go for a walk,” Garcia said. “You haven’t looked around yet.”
They walked downstream. “What happened just now?” Garcia asked.
“I don’t know,” Kinross said. “It was Kruger’s voice, all right. Maybe we’re really still back in that boat and Kruger is making us dream this.”
“If that’s so, I don’t want to come out of it,” the Mexican said feelingly, “but I don’t think so. I’m real, if this world isn’t. When I pinch myself it hurts. My insides work.”
“Me too. But I could sure smell saltwater and diesel oil for a few seconds there. Silva almost made us slip back.”
“Kruger was right, I guess,” the Mexican said slowly, “but it’s tough on poor old Silva.”
They walked on in silence beside the rippling stream. Then Kinross said, “I’ve got a hankering for apples. Wonder if there are any here?”
“Sure,” said Garcia, “just over here.” He crossed the stream and pointed out apples on a low-hanging bough. They were large, bright red and without blemish. Kinross ate several with relish before he noticed that they had no seeds and remarked on it to the Mexican,
“Watch it,” warned Garcia. “No looking close.”
“Well, they taste good,” Kinross said.
“I’ll tell you something,” the Mexican said abruptly. “There’s only one tree here. You find it wherever you look for it and it’s always got what you want growing on it. I found that out while you were asleep. I experimented.”
Kinross felt the strange dread run over him gently. “That might be dangerous,” he warned.
“I didn’t try to make it be two trees,” the Mexican assured him. “Something already told me I shouldn’t look too close.
“There’s something else, too,” Garcia said, when Kinross did not answer. “I’ll let you find it out for yourself. Let’s climb this bank and see what’s on top.”
“Good idea,” Kinross agreed, leading off.
The bank was steeply convex, smooth and regular. Kinross climbed at an angle in order to have a gentler grade and suddenly realized that he was nearly down to the stream again. He swore mildly at his inattention and turned back up the slope, more directly this time. After a few minutes he looked hack to see how far down the stream was and realized with a shock that he was really looking up the bank. He looked in front of him again and the floodplain of the little stream was almost at his feet. He could not remember which way he had been going and panic fingered at him.
“Give up,” Garcia said. “Do you feel it now?”
“I feel something, but what it is. . .”
“Feel lost, maybe?” the Mexican asked.
“No, not lost. Camp, or anyway Kruger, is that way.” Kinross pointed upstream.
“Sure it isn’t downstream?”
“Sure as sure,” Kinross insisted.
“Well, go on back and I’ll meet you there,” the Mexican said, starting off downstream. “Look for landmarks on the way,” he called over his shoulder.
Kinross didn’t see any landmarks. Nothing stood out in any large, general way. As he approached the group around Kruger’s body he saw Garcia coming along the bank from the opposite direction.
“Garcia, does this damn creek run in a circle?” he called in surprise.
“No,” said the Mexican. “You feel it now, don’t you? This world is all one place and you can’t cut it any finer. Every time you go up the bank it leads you down to the stream bed. Whichever way you walk along the stream, you come to Kruger.”
* * * *
Kinross woke up to see Kerbeck splashing water over his head in the stream. Garcia was sleeping nearby and Kinross woke him.
“What’ll we eat this morning?” he asked. “Papayas, d’ye think?”
“Bacon and eggs,” the Mexican yawned. “Let’s find a bacon and egg tree.”
“Don’t joke,” Kinross said. “Kruger won’t like it.”
“Oh well, papayas,” Garcia said. He walked down to the stream and splashed water in his face. Then the two men walked up the little valley.
“What do you mean, ‘this morning’,” Garcia asked suddenly. “I don’t remember any night.”
* * * *
The night was pitch black. “Kinross,” Garcia called out of the blackness.
“Yes?”
“Remember how it got suddenly dark just now?”
“Yes, but it was a long while back.”
“Bet you won’t remember it in the morning.”
“Will there be a morning?” Kinross asked. “I’ve been awake forever.” Sleep was a defense.
* * * *
“Wake up, Kinross,” Garcia said, shaking him. “It’s a fine morning to gather papayas.”
“Is it a morning?” Kinross asked. “I don’t remember any night.”
“We gotta talk,” the Mexican grunted. “Unless we want to sing to ourselves like Kerbeck or moan and cry like Silva over there.”
“Silva? I thought that was the wind.”
“No wind in this world, Kinross.”
* * * *
Kinross bit into papaya pulp. “How long have we been here, do you think?” he asked Garcia.
“It’s been a while.”
“I can’t remember any whole day. Silva was blinded. Was that yesterday? Kerbeck stopped talking and started singing. Was that yesterday?”
“I don’t know,” the Mexican said. “It seems like everything happened yesterday. My beard grew half an inch yesterday.”
Kinross rubbed his own jaw. The brown whiskers were long enough to lie flat and springy.
* * * *
He was walking alone when a whisper came from just behind his head. “Kinross, this is Kruger. Come and talk to me.”
Kinross whirled to face nothing. “Where?” he whispered.
“Just start walking,” came the reply, still from behind.
Kinross started up the bank. He climbed steadily, remembering vaguely a previous attempt at doing so, and suddenly looked back. The stream was far below, lost under the convex curve of the bank that was really a valley wall. Miles across the valley was the other wall, curving up in countersymmetry to the slope he was climbing. He pressed on, wondering, to come out on a height of land like a continental divide. Smooth, sweeping curves fell off enormously on either hand into hazy obscurity.
He walked along it to the right. It had the same terrain of vague grass and indefinite shrubs and trees, flat shades of green with nothing standing out. After a while he saw a gently rounded height rising to his left
, but the whisper directed him down a long gentle slope to his right and then up a shorter, steeper slope to a high plain. There was a vast curve to it, almost too great to sense, but the horizon on the left seemed lower than that on the right. He walked on steadily.
Kinross seemed tireless to himself. He did not know how long he had been walking. He climbed another abrupt slope and a series of shallow but enormous transverse swales replaced the rounded plain. The land still curved downward to the left. Far ahead was a clear mountain shape.
Orbit 2 - Anthology Page 5
