There was one pyramid. It was much smaller than the towers around it. It gleamed a dull yellow. Despite its lack of height, it seemed to dominate the harbor skyline, like a squat, powerful chieftain in the center of a circle of tall, slender warriors. There was movement around its base.
“This is the city of Peos in the region of Poseida,” said Hagbard, “and it was great in Atlantis for a thousand years after the hour of the Dragon Star. It reminds me of Byzantium, which was a great city for a thousand years after the fall of Rome. And that pyramid is the Temple of Tethys, goddess of the Ocean Sea. It was seafaring that made Peos great. I have a soft spot in my heart for those people.”
Crawling around the base of the temple were strange sea creatures that looked like giant spiders. Lights flashed from their heads and glinted on the sides of the temple. As the submarine swept closer, George could see that the spiders were machines, each with a body the size of a tank. They appeared to be excavating deep trenches around the base of the pyramid.
“Wonder where they had those built,” muttered Hagbard. “Hard to keep innovations like that a secret.”
As he spoke, the spiders stopped whatever work they were doing around the pyramid. There was no motion among them at all for a moment. Then one of them rose up from the sea bottom, followed by another, and another. They formed quickly into a V shape and started toward the submarine like a pair of arms outstretched to seize it. They picked up speed as they came.
“They’ve detected us,” Hagbard growled. “They weren’t supposed to, but they have. It never pays to underestimate the Illuminati. All right, George. Button up your asshole. We’re in for a fight.”
At that moment but exactly two hours earlier on the clock, Rebecca Goodman awoke from a dream about Saul and a Playboy bunny and something sinister. The phone was ringing (was there a pyramid in the dream?—she tried to remember—something like that) and she reached groggily past the mermaid statue and held the receiver to her ear. “Yes?” she said cautiously.
“Put your hand on your pussy and listen,” said August Personage. “I’d like to lift your dress and—” Rebecca hung up.
She suddenly remembered the hit when the needle went in, and all those wasted years. Saul had saved her from that, and now Saul was gone and strange voices on the phone talked of sex the way addicts talked of junk. “In the beginning of all things was Mummu, the spirit of pure Chaos. In the beginning was the Word, and it was written by a baboon.” Rebecca Goodman, twenty-five years old, started to cry. If he’s dead, she thought, these years have been wasted, too. Learning to love. Learning that sex was more than another kind of junk. Learning that tenderness was more than a word in the dictionary: that it was just what D. H. Lawrence said, not an embellishment on sex but the center of the act. Learning what that poor guy on the phone could never guess, as most people in this crazy country never guessed it. And then losing it, losing it to an aimless bullet fired from a blind gun somewhere.
August Personage, about to leave the phone booth at the Automat on Fortieth Street and the Avenue of the Americas, catches a flash of plastic on the floor. Bending, he picks up a pornographic tarot card, which he quickly shoves into a pocket to be examined at leisure later.
It was the Five of Pentacles.
And, when the throne room was empty and the believers had departed in wonder and redoubled faith, Hassan knelt and separated the two halves of the vessel which held the head of Ibn Azif. “Very convincing screams,” he commented, slipping the trapdoor beneath the plate; and Ibn Azif climbed out, grinning at his own performance. His neck was thick, bull-like, undamaged, and quite solid.
THE FIFTH TRIP, OR GEBURAH
Swift-Kick, Inc
And, behold, thusly was the Law formulated:
IMPOSITION OF ORDER = ESCALATION OF CHAOS!
—Lord Omar Khayaam Ravenhurst,
“The Gospel According to Fred,” The Honest Book of Truth
The lights flashed; the computer buzzed. Hagbard attached the electrodes.
On January 30, 1939, a silly little man in Berlin gave a silly little speech; among other things, he said: “And another thing I wish to say on this day which perhaps is memorable not only for us Germans: in my life I have many times been a prophet and most of the times I have been laughed at. During the period of my struggle for power, it was in the first case the Jews that laughed at my prophecies that some day I would take over the leadership of the State and thereby of the whole folk and that I would among other things solve also the Jewish problem. I believe that in the meantime the hyenalike laughter of the Jews of Germany has been smothered in their throats. Today I want to be a prophet once more: if the international-finance Jews inside and outside Europe should succeed once more in plunging nations into another world war the consequence will be the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe.” And so on. He was always saying things like that. By 1939 quite a few heads here and there realized that the silly little man was also a murderous little monster, but only a very small number even of these noticed that for the first time in his anti-Semitic diatribes he had used the word Vernichtung—annihilation—and even they couldn’t believe he meant what that implied. In fact, outside of a small circle of friends, nobody guessed what the little man, Adolf Hitler, had planned.
Outside that small—very small—circle of friends, others came in intimate contact with der Führer and never guessed what was in his mind. Hermann Rauschning, the Governor of Danzig, for instance, was a devout Nazi until he began to get some hints of where Hitler’s fancies were tending; after fleeing to France, Rauschning wrote a book warning against his former leader. It was called The Voice of Destruction and was very eloquent, but the most interesting passages in it were not understood by Rauschning or by most of his readers. “Whoever sees in National Socialism nothing but a political movement doesn’t know much about it,” Hitler told Rauschning, and this is in the book, but Rauschning and his readers continued to see National Socialism as a particularly vile and dangerous political movement and nothing more. “Creation is not yet completed,” Hitler said again; and Rauschning again recorded, without understanding. “The planet will undergo an upheaval which you uninitiated people can’t understand,” der Führer warned on another occasion; and, still another time, he remarked that Nazism was, not only more than a political movement, but “more than a new religion;” and Rauschning wrote it all and understood none of it. He even recorded the testimony of Hitler’s physician that the silly and murderous little man often awoke screaming from nightmares that were truly extraordinary in their intensity and would shout, “It’s HIM, it’s HIM, HE’s come for me!” Good old Hermann Rauschning, a German of the old school and not equipped to participate in the New Germany of National Socialism, took all this as evidence of mental unbalance in Hitler….
All of them coming back, all of them. Hitler and Stretcher and Goebbels and the powers behind them what look like something you can’t even imagine, guvnor….
You think they was human, the patient went on as the psychiatrist listened in astonishment, but wait till you see them the second time. And they’re coming—By the end of the month, they’re coming….
Karl Haushofer was never tried at Nuremberg; ask most people to name the men chiefly responsible for the Vernichtung (annihilation) decision, and his name will not be mentioned; even most histories of Nazi Germany relegate him to footnotes. But strange stories are told about his many visits to Tibet, Japan, and other parts of the Orient; his gift for prophecy and clairvoyance; the legend that he belonged to a bizarre sect of dissident and most peculiar Buddhists, who had entrusted him with a mission in the Western world so serious that he vowed to commit suicide if he did not succeed. If the last yarn is true, Haushofer must have failed in his mission, for in March 1946 he killed his wife Martha and then performed the Japanese suicide-rite of sepukku upon himself. His son, Albrecht, had already been executed for his role in the “officer’s plot” to assassinate Hitler. (Of his father, Albrecht had written i
n a poem: “My father broke the seal/He did not feel the breath of the Evil One/ He set It free to roam the world!”)
It was Karl Haushofer, clairvoyant, mystic, medium, Orientalist, and fanatic believer in the lost continent of Thule, who introduced Hitler to the Illuminated Lodge in Munich, in 1923. Shortly thereafter, Hitler made his first bid to seize power.
No rational interpretation of the events of August 1968 in Chicago, satisfactory to all participants and observers, has yet been produced. This suggests the need for value-free models, inspired by the structural analysis in von Neumann and Morgenstern’s Theory of Games and Economic Behavior, which will allow us to express what actually occurred functionally, without tainting our analysis with bias or moral judgments. The model we will employ is that of two teams, an uphill motorcar race and a downhill bicycle race, accidentally intersecting on the same hill. The Picasso statue in the Civic Center will be regarded as “start” for the downhill motorcar race and “finish” for the uphill bicycle race. Pontius Pilate, disguised as Sirhan Sirhan, fires the opening shot, thereby disqualifying Robert F. Kennedy, for whom Marilyn Monroe committed suicide, as recorded in the most trustworthy tabloids and scandal sheets.
THIS IS THE VOICE OF YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD SPIDER MAN SPEAKING. YOU MUST REALIZE THAT YOU ARE NOT JOSEPH WENDELL MALIK.
Hell’s Angels on motorcycles do not fit the structure of the race at all, so they endlessly orbit around the heroic statue of General Logan in Grant Park (“finish” for the uphill crucifixion racers) and can be considered as isolated from the “action,” which is, of course, America.
When Jesus falls the first time, this can be considered as a puncture and Simon operates an air pump on his tires, but the threat to throw LSD in the water supply constitutes a “foul” and this team thereby is driven back three squares by Mace, clubs, and the machine guns of the Capone mob unleashed from another time track in the same multiverse. Willard Gibbs, far more than Einstein, created the modern cosmos, and his concept of contingent or statistical reality, when cross-fertilized with the Second Law of Thermodynamics by Shannon and Wiener, led to the definition of information as the negative reciprocal of probability, making the clubbings of Jesus by Chicago cops just another of those things that happens in this kind of quantum jump.
A centurion named Semper Cuni Linctus passes Simon in Grant Park looking for the uphill bike race. “When we crucify a man,” he mutters, “he should confounded well stay crucified.” The three Marys clutch handkerchiefs to their faces as the teargas and Zyklon B pours upward on the hill, to the spot where the crosses and the statue of General Logan stand…. “Nor dashed a thousand kim,” croons Saint Toad looking through the door at Fission Chips…. Arthur Flegenheimer and Robert Putney Drake ascend the chimney…. “You don’t have to believe in Santa Claus,” H. P. Lovecraft explains…. “Ambrose,” the Dutchman says to him imploringly.
“But it can’t be,” Joe Malik says, half weeping. “It can’t be that crazy. Buildings wouldn’t stand. Planes wouldn’t fly. Dams would collapse. Engineering colleges would be lunatic asylums.”
“They aren’t already?” Simon asks. “Have you read the latest data on the ecological catastrophe? You have to face it, Joe. God is a crazy woman.”
“There are no straight lines in curved space,” Stella adds.
“But my mind is dying,” Joe protests, shuddering.
Simon holds up an ear of corn and tells him urgently, “Osiris is a black god!”
(Sir Charles James Napier, bearded, long-haired and sixty-odd years old, General of Her Majesty’s Armies in India, met a most engaging scoundrel in January 1843 and immediately wrote to his cronies in England about this remarkable person, whom he described as brave, clever, fabulously wealthy, and totally unscrupulous. Since this curious fellow was also regarded as God by his followers, who numbered over three million, he charged twenty rupees for permission to kiss his hand, asked—and got—the sexual favors of the wives or daughters of any True Believers who took his fancy, and proved his divinity by brazenly and openly committing sins which any mortal would shrivel with shame to have acknowledged. He also proved, at the Battle of Miani, where he aided the British against the rebellious Baluchi tribesmen, that he could fight like ten tigers. All in all, General Napier concluded, a most unusual human being—Hasan ali Shah Mahallat, forty-sixth Imam, or living God, of the Ishmaelian sect of Islam, direct descendant of Hassan i Sabbah, and first Aga Khan.)
Dear Joe:
I’m back in Czechago again, fabulous demesne of Crookbacked Richard, pigbaschard of the world, etc., where the pollution comes up like thunder out of Gary across the lake, etc., and the Padre and I are still working on the heads of the local Heads, etc., so I’ve finally got time to write you that long letter I promised.
The Law of Fives is all the farther that Weishaupt ever got, and Hagbard and John aren’t much interested in any further speculations along those lines. The 23/17 phenomenon is entirely my discovery, except that William S. Burroughs has noted the 23 without coming to any conclusions about it.
I’m writing this on a bench in Grant Park, near the place I got Maced three years ago. Nice symbolism.
A woman just came along from the Mothers March Against Polio. I gave her a quarter. What a drag, just when I was trying to get my thoughts in order. When you come out here, I’ll be able to tell you more; this will obviously have to be somewhat sketchy.
Burroughs, anyway, encountered the 23 in Tangier’s, when a ferryboat captain named Clark remarked that he’d been sailing 23 years without an accident. That day, his ship sunk, with all hands and feet aboard. Burroughs was thinking about it in the evening when the radio newscast told him that an Eastern Airlines plane, New York to Miami, had crashed. The pilot was another Captain Clark and the plane was Flight 23.
“If you want to know the extent of their control,” Simon told Joe (speaking this time, not writing a letter; they were driving to San Francisco after leaving Dillinger), “take a dollar bill out of your wallet and look at it. Go ahead—do it now. I want to make a point.” Joe took out his wallet and looked for a single. (A year later, in the city Simon called Czechago in honor of the synchronous invasions in August 1968, the KCUF convention is taking its first luncheon break after Smiling Jim’s sock-it-to-’em opening speech. Simon brushes against an usher, shouts, “Hey, you damned faggot, keep your hands off my ass,” and in the ensuing tumult Joe has no trouble slipping the AUM in the punch.)
“Do I have to get a library card just to look at one book?” Carmel asks the librarian in the Main Branch of the Las Vegas Library, after Maldonado had failed to produce any lead to a communist agent.
“One of the most puzzling acts of Washington’s Presidency,” Professor Percival Petsdeloup tells an American history class at Columbia, back in ’68, “was his refusal to aid Tom Paine when Paine was condemned to death in Paris.” … Why puzzling? George Dorn thinks in the back of the class, Washington was an Establishment fink…. “First of all, look at that face on the front,” Simon says. “It isn’t Washington at all, it’s Weishaupt. Compare it with any of the early, authentic pictures of Washington and you’ll see what I mean. And look at that cryptic half-smile on his face.” (The same smile Weishaupt wore when he finished the letter explaining to Paine why he couldn’t help him; sealed it with the Great Seal of the United States whose meaning only he knew; and settling back in his chair, murmured to himself, “Jacques De Molay, thou art again avenged!”)
“What do you mean, I’m creating a disturbance? It was that faggot there, with his big mitts on my ass.”
(“Well, I don’t know which particular book, honey. Something that tells how the communists work. You know, how a patriotic citizen can spot a commie spy ring if there’s one in his neighborhood. That kind of thing,” Carmel explained.)
A swarm of men in blue shirts and white plastic helmets rushes down the steps at Forty-third Street and UN Plaza, past the inscription reading, “They shall beat their swords into plowshares a
nd their spears into pruning hooks, neither shall they study war any more.” Waving heavy wooden crosses and shouting angry battle cries, the helmeted men surge into the crowd like a wave hitting a sand castle. George sees them coming, and his heart skips a beat.
“And when you turn the bill over, the first thing you see is the Illuminati pyramid. You’ll notice it says seventeen seventy-six on it, but our government was founded in seventeen eighty-eight. Supposedly, the seventeen seventy-six is there because that’s when the Declaration of Independence was signed. The real reason is that seventeen seventy-six is the year Weishaupt revived the Illuminati. And why do you suppose the pyramid has seventy-two segments in thirteen layers?” Simon asks in nineteen sixty-nine…. “Misunderstanding, my eye! When a guy gropes my butt that way I understand exactly what he wants,” Simon shouts in nineteen seventy…. George nudges Peter Jackson. “God’s Lightning,” he says. The plastic hats gleam in the sunlight, more of them jostling down the stairs, a banner, red letters on a white background unfurling above: “AMERICA: LOVE IT OR WE’LL STOMP YOU…. “Christ on roller-skates,” Peter says, “now watch the cops do a vanishing act.”… Dillinger settles down cross-legged in a five-sided chamber under the UN meditation room. He curls into the lotus posture with an ease that would appear unusual in an American in his late sixties were there anyone to witness it.
The illuminatus! trilogy Page 25
