All things dissolve. All things become one.
This is Mars. Oxenshuer, running his ship on manual, lets it dance lightly down the final 500 meters to the touchdown site, touching up the yaw and pitch, moving serenely through the swirling red clouds that his rockets are kicking free. Contact light. Engine stop. Engine arm, off.
—All right, Houston, I’ve landed at Gulliver Base.
His signal streaks across space. Patiently he waits out the lag and gets his reply from Mission Control at last:
—Roger. Are you ready for systems checkout prior to EVA?
—Getting started on it right now, Houston.
He runs through his routines quickly, with the assurance born of total familiarity. All is well aboard the ship; its elegant mechanical brain ticks beautifully and flawlessly. Now Oxenshuer wriggles into his backpack, struggling a little with the cumbersome life-support system; putting it on without any fellow astronauts to help him is more of a chore than he expected, even under the light Martian gravity. He checks out his primary oxygen supply, his ventilating system, his water-support loop, his communications system. Helmeted and gloved and fully sealed, he exists now within a totally self-sufficient pocket universe. Unshipping his power shovel, he tests its compressed-air supply. All systems go.
—Do I have a go for cabin depressurization, Houston?
—You are go for cabin depress, John. It’s all yours. Go for cabin depress.
He gives the signal and waits for the pressure to bleed down. Dials flutter. At last he can open the hatch. We have a go for EVA, John. He hoists his power shovel to his shoulder and makes his way carefully down the ladder. Boots bite into red sand. It is midday on Mars in this longitude, and the purple sky has a warm auburn glow. Oxenshuer approaches the burial mound. He is pleased to discover that he has relatively little excavating to do; the force of his rockets during the descent has stripped much of the overburden from his friends’ tomb. Swiftly he sets the shovel in place and begins to cut away the remaining sand. Within minutes the glistening dome of the crawler is visible in several places. Now Oxenshuer works more delicately, scraping with care until he has revealed the entire dome. He flashes his light through it and sees the bodies of Vogel and Richardson. They are unhelmeted, and their suits are open: casual dress, the best outfit for dying. Vogel sits at the crawler’s controls, Richardson lies just behind him on the floor of the vehicle. Their faces are dry, almost fleshless, but their features are still expressive, and Oxenshuer realizes that they must have died peaceful deaths, accepting the end in tranquility. Patiently he works to lift the crawler’s dome. At length the catch yields and the dome swings upward. Climbing in, he slips his arms around Dave Vogel’s body and draws it out of the spacesuit. So light: a mummy, an effigy. Vogel seems to have no weight at all. Easily Oxenshuer carries the parched corpse over to the ship. With Vogel in his arms he ascends the ladder. Within, he breaks out the flag-sheathed plastic container NASA has provided and tenderly wraps it around the body. He stows Vogel safely in the ship’s hold. Then he returns to the crawler to get Bud Richardson. Within an hour the entire job is done.
—Mission accomplished, Houston.
The landing capsule plummets perfectly into the Pacific: .. The recovery ship, only three kilometers away, makes for the scene while the helicopters move into position over the bobbing spaceship. Frogmen come forth to secure the flotation collar: the old, old routine. In no time at all the hatch is open. Oxenshuer emerges. The helicopter closest to the capsule lowers its recovery basket, Oxenshuer disappears into the capsule, returning a moment later with Vogel’s shrouded body, which he passes across to the swimmers. They load it into the basket and it goes up to the helicopter. Richardson’s body follows, and then Oxenshuer himself.
The President is waiting on the deck of the recovery ship. With him are the two widows, black-garbed, dry-eyed, standing straight and firm. The President offers Oxenshuer a warm grin and grips his hand.
—A beautiful job, Captain Oxenshuer. The whole world is grateful to you.
—Thank you, sir.
Oxenshuer embraces the widows. Richardson’s wife first: a hug and some soft murmurs of consolation. Then he draws Claire close, conscious of the television cameras. Chastely he squeezes her. Chastely he presses his cheek briefly to hers.
—I had to bring him back, Claire. I couldn’t rest until I recovered those bodies.
—You didn’t need to, John.
—I did it for you.
He smiles at her. Her eyes are bright and loving.
There is a ceremony on deck. The President bestows posthumous medals on Richardson and Vogel. Oxenshuer wonders whether the medals will be attached to the bodies, like morgue tags, but no, he gives them to the widows. Then Oxenshuer receives a medal for his dramatic return to Mars. The President makes a little speech. Oxenshuer pretends to listen, but his eyes are on Claire more often than not.
With Claire sitting beside him, he sets forth once more out of Los Angeles via the San Bernardino Freeway, eastward through the plastic suburbs, through Alhambra and Azusa, past the Covina Hills Forest Lawn, through San Bernardino and Banning and Indio, out into the desert. It is a bright late-winter day, and recent rains have greened the hills and coaxed the cacti into bloom. He keeps a sharp watch for landmarks: flatlands, dry lakes.
—I think this is the place. In fact, I’m sure of it.
He leaves the freeway and guides the car northeastward. Yes, no doubt of it: there’s the ancient lake bed, and there’s his abandoned automobile, looking ancient also, rusted and corroded, its hood up, its wheels and engine stripped by scavengers long ago. He parks this car beside it, gets out, dons his backpack. He beckons to Claire.
—Let’s go. We’ve got some hiking ahead of us.
She smiles timidly at him. She leaves the car and presses herself lightly against him, touching her lips to his. He begins to tremble.
—Claire. Oh, God, Claire.
—How far do we have to walk?
—Hours.
He gears his pace to hers. If necessary, they will camp overnight and go on into the city tomorrow, but he hopes they can get there before sundown. Claire is a strong hiker, and he is confident she can cover the distance in five or six hours, but there is always the possibility that he will fail to find the twin mesas. He has no compass points, no maps, nothing but his own intuitive sense of the city’s location to guide him. They walk steadily northward. Neither of them says very much. Every half hour they pause to rest; he puts down his pack and she hands him the canteen. The air is mild and fragrant. Jackrabbits boldly accompany them. Blossoms are everywhere. Oxenshuer, transfigured by love, wants to leap and soar.
—We ought to be seeing those mesas soon.
—I hope so. I’m starting to get tired, John.
—We can stop and make camp if you like.
—No. No. Let’s keep going. It can’t be much farther, can it? They keep going. Oxenshuer calculates they have covered twelve or thirteen kilometers already. Even allowing for some straying from course, they should be getting at least a glimpse of the mesas by this time, and it troubles him that they are not in view. If he fails to find them in the next half hour, he will make camp, for he wants to avoid hiking after sundown.
Suddenly they breast a rise in the desert and the mesas come into view, two steep wedges of rock, dark grey against the sand. The shadows of late afternoon partially cloak them, but there is no mistaking them.
—There they are, Claire. Out there.
—Can you see the city?
—Not from this distance. We’ve come around from the side, somehow. But we’ll be there before very long.
At a faster pace, now, they head down the gentle slope and into the flats. The mesas dominate the scene. Oxenshuer’s heart pounds, not entirely from the strain of carrying his pack. Ahead wait Matt and Jean, Will and Nick, the Speaker, the god-house, the labyrinth. They will welcome Claire as his woman; they will give them a small house on the edge of the city;
they will initiate her into their rites. Soon. Soon. The mesas draw near.
—Where’s the city, John?
—Between the mesas.
—I don’t see it.
—You can’t really see it from the front. All that’s visible is the palisade, and when you get very close you can see some rooftops above it.
—But I don’t even see the palisade, John. There’s just an open space between the mesas.
—A shadow effect. The eye is easily tricked.
But it does seem odd to him. At twilight, yes, many deceptions are possible; nevertheless he has the clear impression from here that there is nothing but open space between the mesas. Can these be the wrong mesas? Hardly. Their shape is distinctive and unique; he could never confuse those two jutting slabs with other formations. The city, then? Where has the city gone? With each step he takes he grows more perturbed. He tries to hide his uneasiness from Claire, but she is tense, edgy, almost panicky now, repeatedly asking him what has happened, whether they are lost. He reassures her as best he can. This is the right place, he tells her. Perhaps it’s an optical illusion that the city is invisible, or perhaps some other kind of illusion, the work of the city folk.
—Does that mean they might not want us, John? And they’re hiding their city from us?
—I don’t know, Claire.
—I’m frightened.
—Don’t be. We’ll have all the answers in just a few minutes.
When they are about 500 meters from the face of the mesas Claire’s control breaks. She whimpers and darts forward, sprinting through the cacti toward the opening between the mesas. He calls out to her, tells her to wait for him, but she runs on, vanishing into the deepening shadows. Hampered by his unwieldy pack, he stumbles after her, gasping for breath. He sees her disappear between the mesas. Weak and dizzy, he follows her path, and in a short while comes to the mouth of the canyon.
There is no city.
He does not see Claire.
He calls her name. Only mocking echoes respond. In wonder he penetrates the canyon, looking up at the steep sides of the mesas, remembering streets, avenues, houses.
—Claire?
No one. Nothing. And now night is coming. He picks his way over the rocky, uneven ground until he reaches the far end of the canyon, and looks back at the mesas, and outward at the desert, and he sees no one. The city has swallowed her and the city is gone.
—Claire! Claire!
Silence.
He drops his pack wearily, sits for a long while, finally lays out his bedroll. He slips into it but does not sleep; he waits out the night, and when dawn comes he searches again for Claire, but there is no trace of her. All right. All right. He yields. He will ask no questions. He shoulders his pack and begins the long trek back to the highway.
By mid-morning he reaches his car. He looks back at the desert, ablaze with noon light. Then he gets in and drives away.
He enters his apartment on Hollywood Boulevard. From here, so many months ago, he first set out for the desert; now all has come around to the beginning again. A thick layer of dust covers the cheap utilitarian furniture. The air is musty. All the blinds are drawn closed. He wanders aimlessly from hallway to living room, from living room to bedroom, from bedroom to kitchen, from kitchen to hallway. He kicks off his boots and sprawls out on the threadbare living-room carpet, face down, eyes closed. So tired. So drained. I’ll rest a bit.
“John?”
It is the Speaker’s voice.
“Let me alone,” Oxenshuer says. “I’ve lost her. I’ve lost you. I think I’ve lost myself.”
“You’re wrong. Come to us, John.”
“I did. You weren’t there.”
“Come now. Can’t you feel the city calling you? The Feast is over. It’s time to settle down among us.”
“I couldn’t find you.”
“You were still lost in dreams, then. Come now. Come. The saint calls you. Jesus calls you. Claire calls you.”
“Claire?”
“Claire,” he says.
Slowly Oxenshuer gets to his feet. He crosses the room and pulls the blinds open. This window faces Hollywood Boulevard; but, looking out, he sees only the red plains of Mars, eroded and cratered, glowing in purple noon light. Vogel and Richardson are out there, waving to him. Smiling. Beckoning. The faceplates of their helmets glitter by the cold gleam of the stars. Come on, they call to him. We’re waiting for you. Oxenshuer returns their greeting and walks to another window. He sees a lifeless wasteland here too. Mars again, or is it only the Mojave Desert? He is unable to tell. All is dry, all is desolate, all is beautiful with the serene transcendent beauty of desolation. He sees Claire in the middle distance. Her back is to him; she is moving at a steady, confident pace toward the twin mesas. Between the mesas lies the City of the Word of God, golden and radiant in the warm sunlight. Oxenshuer nods. This is the right moment. He will go to her. He will go to the city. The Feast of St. Dionysus is over and the city calls to him.
Bring us together. Lead us to the ocean.
Help us to swim. Give us to drink.
Wine in my heart today,
Blood in my throat today,
Fire in my soul today,
All praise, O God, to thee.
Oxenshuer runs in long loping strides. He sees the mesas; he sees the city’s palisade. The sound of far-off chanting throbs in his ears. “This way, brother!” Matt shouts. “Hurry, John!” Claire cries. He runs. He stumbles, and recovers, and runs again. Wine in my heart today. Fire in my soul today. “God is everywhere,” the saint tells him. “But before all else, God is within you.” The desert is a sea, the great warm cradling ocean, the undying mother sea of all things, and Oxenshuer enters it gladly, and drifts, and floats, and lets it take hold of him and carry him wherever it will.
What We Learned from This Morning’s Newspaper
And here we have a story built around one of the most familiar of all science-fictional concepts, the supposed advantages to be had by getting an advance peek at tomorrow’s news. In the olden days every pulpster in the business had a crack at writing the story that was usually called something like “The Man Who Saw Tomorrow,” with results that usually were as predictable to the reader as they would have been to the protagonist, although in the hands of real masters the theme carried plenty of impact. (I think particularly of C.M. Kornbluth’s acidulous little story, “Dominoes,” and Philip K. Dick’s novel The World Jones Made.)
Playing games with time has long been one of my own obsessions as a storyteller, and so it’s not surprising that I, too, have written “The Man Who Saw Tomorrow,” not once but a number of times. Here’s one example. I feel no guilt whatever over having offered the world yet another the-next-day’s-newspaper story. My version of the theme has its own original touches, its own individual stylistic flourishes, its own properly Silverbergian ending, and so be it: here it is, without apologies. I wrote it in January, 1972, and Bob Hoskins published it in the fourth volume of his anthology Infinity.
1.
I got home from the office as usual at 6:47 this evening and discovered that our peaceful street has been in some sort of crazy uproar all day. The newsboy it seems came by today and delivered the New York Times for Wednesday December 1 to every house on Redbud Crescent. Since today is Monday November 22 it follows therefore that Wednesday December 1 is the middle of next week. I said to my wife are you sure that this really happened? Because I looked at the newspaper myself before I went off to work this morning and it seemed quite all right to me.
At breakfast time the newspaper could be printed in Albanian and it would seem quite all right to you my wife replied. Here look at this. And she took the newspaper from the hall closet and handed it all folded up to me. It looked just like any other edition of the New York Times but I saw what I had failed to notice at breakfast time, that it said Wednesday December 1.
Is today the 22nd of November I asked? Monday?
It certainly is my wife told me.
Yesterday was Sunday and tomorrow is going to be Tuesday and we haven’t even come to Thanksgiving yet. Bill what are we going to do about this?
Something Wild is Loose: The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume Three Page 40
