by Gene Wolfe
“I want to know where it is,” Little Tib insisted.
Nitty said, “Why is that?”
“I’m scared of it.”
“It can’t hurt you,” Nitty said. “lt’s just a big number-grinder. It will be turned off at night anyway, won’t it, Mr. Parker?”
“Unless they’re running an overnight job.”
“Well, anyway you don’t have to worry about it,” Nitty said.
Then Mr. Parker told Little Tib where he thought the keys to the side door would be; and told him that if he could not find them, he was to unlock the front door from inside. Nitty asked if he would like to listen to the television, and he said yes, and they listened to a show that had country and western music, and then it was time to go. Nitty held Little Tib’s hand as the three of them walked up the street. Little Tib could feel the tightness in Nitty. He knew that Nitty was thinking about what would happen if someone found them. He heard music—not country and western music like they had heard on the television—and to make Nitty talk so he would not worry so much, he asked what it was.
“That’s Dr. Prithivi,” Nitty told him. “He’s playing that music so that people will come and hear his sermon, and see the people in the costumes.”
“Is he playing it himself?”
“No, he’s got it taped. There’s a loudspeaker on the top of the bus.”
Little Tib listened. The music was a long way away, but it sounded as if it were even farther away than it was. As if it did not belong here in Martinsburg at all. He asked Nitty about that.
Mr. Parker said, “What you sense is remoteness in time, George. That Indian flute music belongs, perhaps, to the fifth century A.D. Or possibly the fifth century B.C., or the fifteenth. It’s like an old, old thing that never knew when to die, that’s still wandering over the earth.”
“It never was here before, was it?” Little Tib asked. Mr. Parker said that that was correct, and then Little Tib said, “Then maybe it isn’t an old thing at all.” Mr. Parker laughed, but Little Tib thought of the time when the lady down the road had had her new baby. It had been weak and small and toothless, like his own grandmother; and he had thought that it was old until everyone told him it was very new, and it would be alive, probably, when its mother was an old woman and dead. He wondered who would be alive a long time from now—Mr. Parker, or Dr. Prithivi.
They turned a corner. “Just a little way farther,” Nitty said.
“Is anybody here to watch us?”
“Don’t you worry. We won’t do anything if anybody’s here.”
Quite suddenly, Mr. Parker’s hands were moving up and down his body. “He’ll be able to get through,” Mr. Parker said. “Feel how thin he is.”
They turned another corner, and there were dead leaves and old newspapers under Little Tib’s feet. “Sure is dark in here,” Nitty whispered.
“You see,” Mr. Parker said, “no one can see us. It’s right here, George.” He took one of Little Tib’s hands and moved it until it touched an iron bar. “Now, remember, through the storeroom, out to the main hall, turn right, past six doors—I think it is—and down half a flight of stairs. That will be the boiler room, and the janitor’s desk is against the wall to your right. The key should be hanging on a hook near the desk. Bring them back here and give them to me. If you can’t find them, come back here and I’ll tell you how to get to the front door and open it.”
“Will you put the keys back?” Little Tib asked. He was getting his left leg between two of the bars, which was easy. His hips slid in after it. He felt the heavy, rusty window swing in as he pushed against it.
“Yes, the first thing I’ll do after you let me in is go back to the boiler room and hang the keys back up.”
“That’s good,” Little Tib said. His mother had told him that you must never steal, though he had taken things since he had run away.
For a little while he was afraid he was going to scrape his ears off. Then the wide part of his head was through, and everything was easy. The window pushed back, and he let his legs down onto the floor. He wanted to ask Mr. Parker where the door to this room was, but that would look as if he were afraid. He put one hand on the wall, and the other one out in front of him, and began to feel his way along. He wished he had his stick, but he could not even remember, now, where he had left it.
“Let me go ahead of you.”
It was the funniest-looking man Little Tib had ever seen.
“I’m soft. If I bump into anything, I won’t be hurt.”
Not a man at all, Little Tib thought. Just clothes padded out, with a painted face at the top. “Why can I see you?” Little Tib said.
“You’re in the dark, aren’t you?”
“I guess so,” Little Tib admitted. “I can’t tell.”
“Exactly. Now, when people who can see are in the light, they can see things that are there. And when they’re in the dark, why, they can’t see them. Isn’t that correct?”
“I suppose so.”
“But when you’re in the light you can’t see things. So naturally when you’re in the dark, you see things that aren’t there. You see how simple it is?”
“Yes,” Little Tib said, not understanding.
“There. That proves it. You can see it, and it isn’t really simple at all.” The Clothes Man had his hand—it was an old glove, Little Tib noticed—on the knob of a big metal door now. When he touched it, Little Tib could see that too. “It’s locked,” the Clothes Man said.
Little Tib was still thinking about what he had said before. “You’re smart,” he told the Clothes Man.
“That’s because I have the best brain in the entire world. It was given to me by the great and powerful Wizard himself.”
“Are you smarter than the computer?”
“Much, much smarter than the Computer. But I don’t know how to open this door.”
“Have you been trying?”
“Well, I’ve been shaking the knob—only it won’t shake. And I’ve been feeling around for a catch. That’s trying, I suppose.”
“I think it is,” Little Tib said.
“Ah, you’re thinking—that’s good.” Little Tib had reached the door, and the Clothes Man moved to one side to let him feel it. “If you had the ruby slippers,” the Clothes Man continued, “you could just click your heels three times and wish, and you’d be on the other side. Of course, you’re on the other side now.”
“No, I’m not,” Little Tib told him.
“Yes, you are,” the Clothes Man said. “Over there is where you want to be—that’s on that side. So this is the other side.”
“You’re right,” Little Tib admitted. “But I still can’t get through the door.”
“You don’t have to, now,” the Clothes Man told him. “You’re already on the other side. Just don’t trip over the steps.”
“What steps?” Little Tib asked. As he did, he took a step backward. His heel bumped something he did not expect, and he sat down hard on something else that was higher up than the floor should have been.
“Those steps,” the Clothes Man said mildly.
Little Tib was feeling them with his hands. They were sidewalk-stuff, with metal edges; and they felt almost as hard and real to his fingers as they had a moment ago when he sat down on them without wanting to. “I don’t remember going down these,” he said.
“You didn’t. But now you have to go up them to get to the upper room.”
“What upper room?”
“The one with the door that goes out into the corridor,” the Clothes Man told him. “You go to the corridor, and turn that way, and—”
“I know,” Little Tib said. “Mr. Parker told me. Over and over. But he didn’t tell me about that door that was locked, or these steps.”
“It may be that Mr. Parker doesn’t remember the inside of this building quite as well as he thinks he does.”
“He used to work here. He told me.” Little Tib was going up the stairs. There was an iron rail on one side.
He was afraid that if he did not talk to the Clothes Man, he would go away. But he could not think of anything to say, and nothing of the kind happened. Then he remembered that he had not talked to the lion at all.
“I could find the keys for you,” the Clothes Man said. “I could bring them back to you.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” Little Tib told him.
“It would just take a moment. I fall down a lot, but keys wouldn’t break.”
“No,” Little Tib said. The Clothes Man looked so hurt that he added, “I’m afraid …”
“You can’t be afraid of the dark. Are you afraid of being alone?”
“A little. But I’m afraid you couldn’t really bring them to me. I’m afraid you’re not real, and I want you to be real.”
“I could bring them.” The Clothes Man threw out his chest and struck a heroic pose, but the dry grass that was his stuffing made a small, sad, rustling sound. “I am real. Try me.”
There was another door—Little Tib’s fingers found it. This one was not locked, and when he went out it, the floor changed from sidewalk to smooth stone. “I, too, am real,” a strange voice said. The Clothes Man was still there when the strange voice spoke, but he seemed dimmer.
“Who are you?” Little Tib asked, and there was a sound like thunder. He had hated the strange voice from the beginning, but until he heard the thunder-sound he had not really known how much. It was not really like thunder, he thought. He remembered his dream about the gnomes, though this was much worse. It seemed to him that it was like big stones grinding together at the bottom of the deepest hole in the world. It was worse than that, really.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” the Clothes Man said.
“If the keys are in there, I’ll have to go in and get them,” Little Tib replied.
“They’re not in there at all. In fact, they’re not even close to there—they’re several doors down. All you have to do is walk past the door.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s the Computer,” the Clothes Man told him.
“I didn’t think they talked like that.”
“Only to you. And not all of them talk at all. Just don’t go in and it will be all right.”
“Suppose it comes out here after me?”
“It won’t do that. It is as frightened of you as you are of it.”
“I won’t go in,” Little Tib promised.
When he was opposite the door where the thing was, he heard it groaning as if it were in torture; and he turned and went in. He was very frightened to find himself there; but he knew he was not in the wrong place—he had done the right thing, and not the wrong thing. Still, he was very frightened. The horrible voice said: “What have we to do with you? Have you come to torment us?”
“What is your name?” Little Tib asked.
The thundering, grinding noise came a second time, and this time Little Tib thought he heard in it the sound of many voices, perhaps hundreds or thousands, all speaking at once.
“Answer me,” Little Tib said. He walked forward until he could put his hands on the cabinet of the machine. He felt frightened, but he knew the Clothes Man had been right—the Computer was as frightened of him as he was of it. He knew that the Clothes Man was standing behind him, and he wondered if he would have dared to do this if someone else had not been watching.
“We are legion,” the horrible voice said. “Very many.”
“Get out!” There was a moaning that might have come from deep inside the earth. Something made of glass that had been on furniture fell over and rolled and crashed to the floor.
“They are gone,” the Clothes Man said. He sat on the cabinet of the computer so Little Tib could see it, and he looked brighter than ever.
“Where did they go?” Little Tib asked.
“I don’t know. You will probably meet them again.” As if he had just thought of it, he said, “You were very brave.”
“I was scared. I’m still scared—the worst since I left the new place.”
“I wish I could tell you that you didn’t have to be afraid of them,” the Clothes Man said, “or of anybody. But it wouldn’t be true. Still, I can tell you something that is really better than that—that it will all come out right in the end.” He took off the big, floppy black hat he wore, and Little Tib saw that his bald head was really only a sack. “You wouldn’t let me bring the keys before, but how about now? Or would you be afraid with me away?”
“No,” Little Tib said, “but I’ll get the keys myself.”
At once the Clothes Man was gone. Little Tib felt the smooth, cool metal of the computer under his hands. In the blackness, it was the only reality there was.
He did not bother to find the window again; instead, he unlocked another, and called Nitty and Mr. Parker to it, smelling as he did the cool, damp air of spring. At the opening, he thrust the keys through first, then squeezed himself between the bars. By the time he was outside, he could hear Mr. Parker unlocking the side door.
“You were a long time,” Nitty said. “Was it bad in there by yourself?”
“I wasn’t by myself,” Little Tib said.
“I’m not even goin’ to ask you about that. I used to be a fool, but I know better now. You still want to go to Dr. Prithivi’s meetin’?”
“He wants us to come, doesn’t he?”
“You are the big star, the main event. If you don’t come, it’s going to be like no potato salad at a picnic.”
They walked back to the motel in silence. The flute music they had heard before was louder and faster now, with the clangs of gongs interspersed in its shrill wailings. Little Tib stood on a footstool while Nitty took his clothes away and wrapped a piece of cloth around his waist, and another around his head, and hung his neck with beads, and painted something on his forehead.
“There, you look just ever so fine,” Nitty said.
“I feel silly,” Little Tib told him.
Nitty said that that did not matter, and they left the motel again and walked several blocks. Little Tib heard the crowd, and the loud sounds of the music, and then smelled the familiar dark, sweet smell of Dr. Prithivi’s bus; he asked Nitty if the people had not seen him, and Nitty said that they had not, that they were watching something taking place on a stage outside.
“Ah,” Dr. Prithivi said. “You are here, and you are just in time.”
Nitty asked him if Little Tib looked all right.
“His appearance is very fine indeed, but he must have his instrument.” He put a long, light stick into Little Tib’s hands. It had a great many little holes in it. Little Tib was happy to have it, knowing that he could use it to feel his way if necessary.
“Now it is time you met your fellow performer,” Dr. Prithivi said. “Boy Krishna, this is the god Indra. Indra, it has given me the greatest pleasure to introduce to you the god Krishna, most charming of the incarnations of Vishnu.”
“Hello,” a strange, deep voice said.
“You are doubtless familiar already with the story, but I will tell it to you again in order to refresh your memories before you must appear on my little stage. Krishna is the son of Queen Devaki, and this lady is the sister of the wicked King Kamsa who kills all her children when they are born. To save Krishna, the good Queen places him among villagers. There he offends Indra, who comes to destroy him … .”
Little Tib listened with only half his mind, certain that he could never remember the whole story. He had forgotten the Queen’s name already. The wood of the flute was smooth and cool under his fingers, the air in the bus hot and heavy, freighted with strange, sleepy odors.
“I am King Kamsa,” Dr. Prithivi was saying, “and when I am through being he, I will be a cowherd, so I can tell you what to do. Remember not to drop the mountain when you lift it.”
“I’ll be careful,” Little Tib said. He had learned to say that in school.
“Now I must go forth and prepare for you. When you hear the great gong struck three times, come out
. Your friend will be waiting there to take you to the stage.”
Little Tib heard the door of the bus open and close. “Where’s Nitty?” he asked.
The deep voice of Indra—a hard, dry voice, it seemed to Little Tib—said: “He has gone to help.”
“I don’t like being alone here.”
“You are not alone,” Indra said. “I’m with you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you like the story of Krishna and Indra? I will tell you another story. Once, in a village not too far away from here—”
“You aren’t from around here, are you?” Little Tib asked. “Because you don’t talk like it. Everybody here talks like Nitty or like Mr. Parker except Dr. Prithivi, and he’s from India. Can I feel your face?”
“No, I’m not from around here,” Indra said. “I am from Niagara. Do you know what that is?”
Little Tib said, “No.”
“It is the capital of this nation—the seat of government. Here, you may feel my face.”
Little Tib reached upward; but Indra’s face was smooth, cool wood, like the flute. “You don’t have a face,” he said.
“That is because I am wearing the mask of Indra. Once, in a village not too far from here, there were a great many women who wanted to do something nice for the whole world. So they offered their bodies for certain experiments. Do you know what an experiment is?”
“No,” said Little Tib.
“Biologists took parts of these women’s bodies—parts that would later become boys and girls. And they reached down inside the tiniest places in those parts and made improvements.”
“What kind of improvements?” Little Tib asked.
“Things that would make the girls and boys smarter and stronger and healthier—that kind of improvement. Now these good women were mostly teachers in a college, and the wives of college teachers.”
“I understand,” Little Tib said. Outside, the people were singing.
“However, when those girls and boys were born, the biologists decided that they needed more children to study—children who had not been improved, so that they could compare them to the ones who had.”
“There must have been a lot of those,” Little Tib ventured.
