INVOCATION
This book is dedicated to the Ancient Ones, to the Lord of Abominations, Humwawa, whose face is a mass of entrails, whose breath is the stench of dung and the perfume of death, Dark Angel of all that is excreted and sours, Lord of Decay, Lord of the Future, who rides on a whispering south wind, to Pazuzu, Lord of Fevers and Plagues, Dark Angel of the Four Winds with rotting genitals from which he howls through sharpened teeth over stricken cities, to Kutulu, the Sleeping Serpent who cannot be summoned, to the Akhkharu, who suck the blood of men since they desire to become men, to the Lalussu, who haunt the places of men, to Gelal and Lilit, who invade the beds of men and whose children are born in secret places, to Addu, raiser of storms, who can fill the night sky with brightness, to Malah, Lord of Courage and Bravery, to Zahgurim, whose number is twenty-three and who kills in an unnatural fashion, to Zahrim, a warrior among warriors, to Itzamna, Spirit of Early Mists and Showers, to Ix Chel, the Spider-Web-That-Catches-the-Dew-of-Morning, to Zuhuy Kak, Virgin Fire, to Ah Dziz, the Master of Cold, to Kak U Pacat, who works in fire, to Ix Tab, Goddess of Ropes and Snares, patroness of those who hang themselves, to Schmuun, the Silent One, twin brother of Ix Tab, to Xolotl the Unformed, Lord of Rebirth, to Aguchi, Master of Ejaculations, to Osiris and Amen in phallic form, to Hex Chun Chan, the Dangerous One, to Ah Pook, the Destroyer, to the Great Old One and the Star Beast, to Pan, God of Panic, to the nameless gods of dispersal and emptiness, to Hassan I Sabbah, Master of the Assassins.
To all the scribes and artists and practitioners of magic through whom these spirits have been manifested . . . .
NOTHING IS TRUE. EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED.
POLITICS HERE IS DEATH
Muted remote boardroom. Doctor Pierson sits at the head of the table with notes in front of him. He speaks in a dry flat academic voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Board, I am here to give a report on preliminary experiments with Virus B-23. . . . Consider the origins of this virus in the Cities of the Red Night. The red glow that covered the northern sky at night was a form of radiation that gave rise to a plague known as the Red Fever, of which Virus B-23 was found to be the etiological agent.
“Virus B-23 has been called, among other things, the virus of biological mutation, since this agent occasioned biologic alterations in those affected—fatal in many cases, permanent and hereditary in the survivors, who become carriers of that strain. The original inhabitants of these cities were black, but soon a wide spectrum of albino variations appeared, and this condition was passed on to their descendants by techniques of artificial insemination which were, to say the least, highly developed. In fact, how some of these mutant pregnancies were contracted is unknown to modern science. Immaculate or at least viral conception was pandemic and may have given rise to legends of demon lovers, the succubi and incubi of medieval folklore.”
Doctor Pierson continues: “The virus, acting directly on neural centers, brought about sexual frenzies that facilitated its communication, just as rabid dogs are driven to spread the virus of rabies by biting. Various forms of sexual sacrifice were practiced . . . sexual hangings and strangulations, and drugs that caused death in erotic convulsions. Death during intercourse was a frequent occurrence and was considered an especially favorable circumstance for conveying the viral alterations.
“We are speaking of more or less virgin genetic material of high quality. At this time the newly conceived white race was fighting for its biological continuity, so the virus served a most useful purpose. However, I question the wisdom of introducing Virus B-23 into contemporary America and Europe. Even though it might quiet the uh silent majority, who are admittedly becoming uh awkward, we must consider the biologic consequences of exposing genetic material already damaged beyond repair to such an agent, leaving a wake of unimaginably unfavorable mutations all ravenously perpetrating their kind . . .
“There have been other proposals. I cite the work of Doctor Unruh von Steinplatz on radioactive virus strains. Working with such established viruses as rabies, hepatitis, and smallpox, he exposed generations of virus to atomic radiation to produce airborne strains of unbelievable virulence capable of wiping out whole populations within days. However, this blueprint contains a flaw: the disposal problem posed by billions of radioactive corpses unfit even for fertilizer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I propose to remove the temporal limits, shifting our experimental theater into past time in order to circumvent the whole tedious problem of overpopulation. You may well ask if we can be certain of uh containing the virus in past time. The answer is: we do not have sufficient data to speak with certainty. We propose; the virus may dispose . . .”
A thin man in his early thirties with sandy hair and pale blue eyes had been taking notes while Doctor Pierson was speaking. He looked up and spoke in a clear, rather high-pitched voice with a faint trace of Germanic accent. “Doctor Pierson, I have a few questions.”
“Certainly,” said Pierson with cold displeasure. He knew exactly who this man was, and wished that he had not been invited to attend the meeting. This was Jon Alistair Peterson, born in Denmark, now working on a secret government project in England. He was a virologist and mathematician who had devised a computer to process qualitative data.
Peterson leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. He extracted a joint from his shirt pocket. It was a loud Carnaby Street shirt. Pierson thought it vulgar. Peterson lit the joint and blew smoke towards the ceiling, seemingly oblivious of disapproving looks from the board members. He glanced down at his notes. “My first question is a matter of uh nomenclature.” Pierson was annoyed to realize that Peterson was mimicking his own academic tones.
“Professor Steinplatz’s experiments, as you must know, consisted of inoculating animals with various viruses and then exposing the animals to radiation. This exposure produced virus mutations tending towards increased virulence and. . . .” He took a long drag and blew smoke across his notes. “. . . uh increased communication potential. In plain English, the mutated viruses were much more infectious.”
“I would say that is a more or less accurate paraphrase of what I have just said.”
“Not precisely. The mutated virus strains were produced by radiation and the test animals, having been exposed to radiation, were of course radioactive to a point but not dangerously so. . . . The viruses were produced by radiation, but it does not necessarily follow that the viruses were themselves radioactive. Is not your use of the term radioactive virus and your uh evocation of billions of radioactive corpses uh misleading?”
Doctor Pierson found it difficult to conceal his annoyance. “I have pointed out that, owing to the grave dangers inherent in large-scale experimentation which could among other things severely damage our public image, our data is incomplete . . .”
“Ah yes, to be sure. And now if you will bear with me, Doctor, I have some additional questions. . . . You have said that Virus B-23 resulted from radiation?” asked Peterson.
“I did.”
“In what way does it differ from the strains developed by Doctor Steinplatz?”
“I thought I had made that point quite clear: the form of radiation emanating from the red light is unknown at the present time.”
“You are then ignorant of the nature of this wondrous radiation, or as to how it could be produced in the laboratory?”
“Yes.”
“Has it occurred to you that it might be similar to Reich’s DOR, or Deadly Orgone Radiation, which is produced by placing radioactive material in an organic container lined with iron?”
“Preposterous! Reich was a charlatan! A lunatic!”
“Perhaps . . . but such a simple and inexpensive experiment. . . we could start with herpes simplex.”
“I fail to see that any useful purpose. . . .” Pierson glanced around the table. Stony faces looked back at him. He was concealing something and they knew it.
Doctor Pierson looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I must cut this shor
t. I have a plane to catch.”
Peterson held up his hand. “I’m not quite finished, Doctor. . . . I am sure that a slight delay in takeoff could be arranged for a person of your importance. . . . Now, the virus strains developed by Doctor Steinplatz were, to be sure, more contagious and more virulent than the mother strains from which they were derived, but still quite recognizable. For example, for example, the good doctor’s airborne rabies would still be clinically recognizable as rabies. Even if the viruses were mixed into a cocktail, the individual ingredients would still be comparatively easy to identify. You would agree, Doctor Pierson?”
“In theory, yes. However, we do not know, in the absence of large-scale exposure, whether the viruses might not undergo further mutations that would render identification difficult.”
“To be sure. The point I am making is simply that Doctor Steinplatz started his experiments with certain known viruses. . . . Doctor Pierson, you have stated that Virus B-23 resulted from unknown radiation. Do you imply that this virus was so produced out of thin air? Let me put it this way: What virus or viruses known to unknown mutated as a result of this radiation?”
“At the risk of repeating myself, I will say again that both the radiation and the virus or viruses are unknown at this time,” said Pierson archly.
“The symptoms of a virus are the attempts of the body to deal with a virus attack. By their symptoms you shall know them, and even a totally unknown virus would yield considerable data by its symptoms. On the other hand, if a virus produces no symptoms, then we have no way of knowing that it exists . . . no way of knowing that it is a virus.”
“So?”
“So the virus in question may have been latent or it may have been living in benign symbiosis with the host.”
“That is, of course, possible,” admitted Pierson.
“Now let us consider the symptoms of Virus B-23: fever, rash, a characteristic odor, sexual frenzies, obsession with sex and death. . . . Is this so totally strange and alien?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I will make myself clearer. We know that a consuming passion can produce physical symptoms . . . fever . . . loss of appetite . . . even allergic reactions . . . and few conditions are more obsessional and potentially self-destructive than love. Are not the symptoms of Virus B-23 simply the symptoms of what we are pleased to call ‘love’? Eve, we are told, was made from Adam’s rib . . . so a hepatitis virus was once a healthy liver cell. If you will excuse me, ladies, nothing personal. . . we are all tainted with viral origins. The whole quality of human consciousness, as expressed in male and female, is basically a virus mechanism. I suggest that this virus, known as ‘the other half,’ turned malignant as a result of the radiation to which the Cities of the Red Night were exposed.”
“You lost me there.”
“Did I indeed. . . . And I would suggest further that any attempts to contain Virus B-23 will turn out to be ineffectual because we carry this virus with us,” said Peterson.
“Really, Doctor, aren’t you letting fantasy run away with you? After all, other viruses have been brought under control. Why should this virus be an exception?”
“Because it is the human virus. After many thousands of years of more or less benign coexistence, it is now once again on the verge of malignant mutation . . . what Doctor Steinplatz calls a virgin soil epidemic. This could result from the radiation already released in atomic testing . . .”
“What’s your point, Doctor?” Pierson snapped.
“My point is very simple. The whole human position is no longer tenable. And one last consideration . . . as you know, a vast crater in what is now Siberia is thought to have resulted from a meteor. It is further theorized that this meteor brought with it the radiation in question. Others have surmised that it may not have been a meteor but a black hole, a hole in the fabric of reality, through which the inhabitants of these ancient cities traveled in time to a final impasse.”
HARBOR POINT
Early morning mist. . . bird calls . . . howler monkeys like wind in the trees. Fifty armed partisans are moving north over Panama jungle trails. Unshaven faces at once alert and drawn with fatigue, and a rapid gait that is almost a jog, indicate a long forced march without sleep. The rising sun picks out their faces.
Noah Blake: twenty, a tall red-haired youth with brown eyes, his face dusted with freckles. Bert Hansen: a Swede with light blue eyes. Clinch Todd: a powerful youth with long arms and something sleepy and quiescent in his brown eyes flecked with points of light. Paco: a Portuguese with Indian and Negro blood. Sean Brady: black Irish with curly black hair and a quick wide smile.
Young Noah Blake is screwing the pan onto a flintlock pistol, testing the spring, oiling the barrel and stock. He holds the pistol up to his father, who examines it critically. Finally he nods . . .
“Aye, son, that can go out with the Blake mark on it. . .”
“Old Lady Norton stuck her head in the shop and said I shouldn’t be working on the Lord’s Day.”
“And she shouldn’t be sniffing her long snot-dripping nose into my shop on the Lord’s Day or any other. The Nortons have never bought so much as a ha’penny measure of nails off me.” His father looks around the shop, his fingers hooked in his wide belt. Lean and red-haired, he has the face of a mechanic: detached, factual, a face that minds its own business and expects others to do the same. “We’ll be moving to the city, son, where nobody cares if you go to church or not. . .”
“Chicago, Father?”
“No, son, Boston. On the sea. We have relations there.”
Father and son put on coats and gloves. They lock the shop and step out into the muted streets of the little snowbound village on Lake Michigan. As they walk through the snow, villagers pass. Some of the greetings are quick and cold with averted faces.
“Is it all right if my friends come to dinner, Father? They’ll be bringing fish and bread . . .”
“All right with me, son. But they aren’t well seen here. . . . There’s talk in the village, son. Bad talk about all of you. If it wasn’t for Bert Hansen’s father being a shipowner and one of the richest men in town there’d be more than talk. . . . Quicker we move the better.”
“Could the others come too?”
“Well, son, I could use some more hands in the shop. No limit to how many guns we can sell in a seaport like Boston . . . and I’m thinking maybe Mr. Hansen would pay to get his son out of here . . .”
Spring morning, doves call from the woods. Noah Blake and his father, Bert Hansen, Clinch Todd, Paco, and Sean Brady board a boat with their luggage stacked on deck. The villagers watch from the pier.
Mrs. Norton sniffs and says in her penetrating voice, “Good riddance to the lot of them.” She glances sideways at her husband.
“I share the same views,” he says hastily.
Boston: two years later. Mr. Blake has prospered. He works now on contracts from shipowners, and his guns are standard issue. He has remarried. His wife is a quiet refined girl from New York. Her family are well-to-do importers and merchants with political connections. Mr. Blake plans to open a New York branch, and there is talk of army and navy contracts. Noah Blake is studying navigation. He wants to be a ship’s captain, and all five of the boys want to ship out.
“Wait till you find the right ship,” Mr. Blake tells them.
One winter day, Noah is walking on the waterfront with Bert, Clinch, Sean and Paco. They notice a ship called The Great White. Rather small but very clean and trim. A man leans over the rail. He has a beefy red smiling face and cold blue eyes.
“You boys looking for a ship?”
“Maybe,” says Noah cautiously.
“Well, come aboard.”
He meets them at the gangplank. “I’m Mr. Thomas, first mate.” He extends a hand like callused beef and shakes hands with each boy in turn. He leads the way to the master’s cabin. “This is Captain Jones—master of The Great White. These boys are looking for a ship . . . maybe . . .”
The boys nod politely. Captain Jones looks at them in silence. He is a man of indeterminate age with a grey-green pallor. He speaks at length, in a flat voice, his lips barely moving.
“Well, I could use five deckhands. . . . You boys had any experience?”
“Yes. On the Great Lakes.” Noah indicates Bert Hansen. “His father owned fishing boats.”
“Aye,” says Captain Jones, “freshwater sailing. The sea’s another kettle of fish.”
“I’ve studied navigation,” Noah puts in.
“Have you now? And what would be your name, lad?”
“Noah Blake.”
An almost imperceptible glance passes between the Captain and the first mate.
“And your trade, lad?”
“Gunsmith.”
“Well, now, you wouldn’t be Noah Blake’s son would you?”
“Yes, sir, I would.”
Once again the glance flickers between the two men. Then Captain Jones leans back in his chair and looks at the boys with his dead, fishy eyes.
Word Virus: The William S. Burroughs Reader Page 65
