Astounding Science Fiction Stories: An Anthology of 350 Scifi Stories Volume 2 (Halcyon Classics)

by Various

  Throughout the day he studied consciously, or received hypnotic instruction; during the night, while his sleep was more keen and more restful than ever before, the instruction continued. He learned many things. He became aware of who Aristotle was, and what he had done. He developed an acquaintance with all the great men and cultures of the lost lands of Europa. He learned that he lived on the west coast of Ameru, and that this coast was one large City; he learned that the once large continent had dwindled greatly in the disasters, that the ocean waves now poured over the great plains, and all to the eastward. He felt occasionally a longing to see the mountains, and the further waters.

  He learned and throve. He began to see other figures more distinctly: once in the corridor he met a Man face to face, and they smiled and bowed to each other. It had been a small Man, with a funny beard, and very bright eyes. It had not been like anybody he had ever seen in the City. But suddenly he knew that he was not like anybody in the City, and that it could no longer be his home. The shock of the fact that the City was not everything, that there was existence, and desirable existence, outside of it, came to him strongly; but now he was ready for it. When the tumult was over, his mind was at last born, and he was a human being, ready to aim for high goals, and to co-operate with destiny.

  That night much of a strange nature, called "Sunrise", came to him, and strange names, faces, and disciplines were vaguely lodged within him. He awoke with a most definite feeling of readiness, and with his breakfast he knew, beyond doubt, that "When the disciple is ready, the Master appears."

  When he had finished eating, he left the library, and walked in thought. How dismal everything was! Nobody knowing, or caring about anything really important; nobody seeing anything. And certainly they did not see him: but he saw them very clearly. And how much was there, still to be seen, all around him? And what was it, what did it mean? He had to get out, he had to find an answer.

  He pushed the nearest button, and slid into the suave black Car that noiselessly approached. He had never seen a black Car before. He wondered if his eyes were still playing tricks upon him, if he would ever see anything aright. Then he dismissed it from his mind.

  "Take me out of the City", he said.

  There was a slight hesitation; then they were moving, slowly and quietly, in a northeasterly direction.

  It was a long ride, past all the familiar features of the City, multiplied many fold. At length the Car shuddered slightly, and the virtue seemed to go out of it in a gentle rush: it stopped, utterly still, and the silent door slid open with an eloquent finality. He got out, and the Car seemed to hasten away as from an undesired doom.

  But his weird was upon him; he thought so, in the transfixing old terms; and he turned and beheld an open field, with mountains in the distance. And it came to him that he had ridden this way before, and seen nothing but City all around him. He thought then of enigmatic things that he had heard and read in the library: of how certain Tibetans rendered themselves invisible, or at least passed unseen, by shielding their thought waves—by giving out no handle for perception to grasp. So had this landscape hidden itself, it seemed: shielded itself from desecration.

  Or perhaps there were beings, perhaps there was existence, that gave continual indication, bristled with handles, as it were: but handles that could not be grasped or made use of by an organism insufficiently developed. It seemed more of a truism, the more he thought of it.

  But it did not seem to matter, on this bright new day. He dismissed the question and stepped forward, into the yielding grass.

  What a great thing it was to have a mind, to feel alive on such a day! He tried to remember how dim, how crippled he had been; it seemed impossible. Could he have been only one poor, flickering candle, he who now blazed with the light of a hundred, or a thousand? Could he have rattled on one cylinder, he who now moved smoothly and noiselessly on sixteen or twenty? It was too marvelous for words, or for thoughts.

  For a long time he walked, perspiring freely, then puffing, limping and laboring. It was hot, with no breezes from the sea. An occasional rill was refreshing, and a glade was cooling: the leaves rustled gently in the now and then quickened air, and the birds were sweet with song. But there was no sign of human life. At length he sat down on a fallen log, and rested.

  He sat long, thinking and dozing. The sun was low in the sky when he arose, and followed some prompting to a ridge not too greatly in the distance. He had come without provision of any kind, and with no fear for his welfare: he would see. The ground seemed soft enough, if he had to sleep there; he took off his shoes and socks, and enjoyed the cool grass.

  He walked on toward the ridge, slowly and confidently, his shoes and socks in his hand. He had not eaten for many hours, but he did not seem hungry. Food was not the tremendously important thing that it used to be. He thought of his old esurience, and smiled. Whatever his god was, it was not his belly, it was not his body at all. He still had enough flab to live on for some time without inconvenience, and it would be better to live on it, than to keep stuffing himself. There were no women either, and no androids. They were tiresome, and tiring, things. He sighed almost with contentment.

  Soon he crossed the ridge, and saw the smiling farmland in the valley not far below. This was where the old food supplies had come from: this had been the life of all but a few, for many centuries. There was a great peace over it all. With a sense as of treading on hallowed ground, he descended steadily, and soon came upon a large and rambling wooden house, unpainted, and comfortable. Really comfortable, in a human way, not in the sham way of the City. There was an elderly woman on the porch, serenely rocking. As he approached, she smiled.

  "Welcome, stranger!" she said. "Come on up and rest awhile."

  He was glad of the invitation, and he mounted the generous and solid steps with his shoes and socks still in his hand. He sat down and redonned them, under her friendly smile.

  "It feels good, doesn't it?" she asserted. "The real earth, under real feet. Maybe you read the poet Hopkins before you got out. I did, right at the last. One poem has always stuck with me, and especially this one line of it:

  Neither can feet feel, being shod.

  I wanted to feel things; I was tired of being shod, and insulated, and deadened. I was just a young girl, then. I felt charged with the grandeur of God, as Hopkins put it, and I had to get out. I've seen a lot of God's grandeur, and a lot of His blessing, through a long life. It's been good, here in the real world.

  "But it's no use chattering," she continued. "That doesn't really express or communicate anything. Nature has got a bigger and better voice than any of us, and the best thing to do is just to listen for it. I hope you'll stay with us awhile. The longer the better. We like to help people who've just escaped. But I still talk too much. Supper'll be ready pretty soon, and I have to go tend to it for a few minutes. Just you sit there and be calm: listen for the still voices."

  He was glad to do so, and gladder still to see the men of the family returning from the fields. There were three of them, tall and strong, real human beings, healthy and alive, and little marked by unprofitable care. They had a faith, it seemed, a communion, a divine assurance, more or less fulfilled.

  The older man, the father, welcomed him again, and they were soon seated at the supper table. He noticed that the men ate heartily, and had yet not an ounce of excess flesh. He rued his own bulk, and ate but sparingly, only out of politeness. But food had never tasted so good before.

  The two sons were already approaching middle age, and were still unmarried. This occasioned their mother some concern. But, as she said, they didn't seem to care, and God or nature could take care of these things better than people could. There was no use straining.

  "And there aren't so many young women around," she mused. "There aren't many people. Whatever love-making there may be, there's very little breeding. It's like the City, in that respect. It seems this just isn't a very good world these days, comparatively speaking, and people are bei
ng held back till it gets better. There seems to be a sort of a cloud over everything. I don't know. Anyway, we're contented. At least we have our minds and hearts, and our patience."

  He stayed a week, a month: into the natural influences he vigorously and gratefully plunged. He helped with the farm work, and grew lean and hard, and mentally as well as physically strong. He stayed on, through the winter.

  Then, with the spring, his own fertile ground began to burst and ache, and he was no longer satisfied. He was not nature itself, to endure unmoved the countless cycles of diversified sameness; he was rather a flower that faded with a season, a leaf that would soon fall. He was like a single wave of the vast ocean, and like that wave he must forever be moving on, questioning.

  And so he left the farm very early one morning, and walked north, as he could tell by the stars. They would not be surprised, and it was better this way, without farewells. They would know that, for him, they had served their purpose, and would be glad. And so he walked north, before sunrise. For this direction he was conscious of no particular reason; but he felt it to be as good as any other.

  He passed a farm or two, skirting them carefully, and breakfasted on the sunrise alone. It was so beautiful, thus breaking, rose and golden, over the hills. He remembered the last poet that he had read, before his deliverance: the great Sidney Lanier. "The Georgia gold mine," he thought facetiously; and was at once sorry, for his shallowness. No more would successive suns blaze upon the soft southern beauty. The warm blue Atlantic waves rolled over the home of this poet-prophet; whose promise, he fervently hoped, was not yet drowned. He also would be Lit with the Sun. He stretched out his arms to the streaming gold, and then walked on vigorously, with a new purpose not yet defined.

  He was getting into ruggeder country, and the going was more difficult. But yet he felt no inclination to break his fast, or to slacken his pace. The air was fresh, and good. He climbed around the spur of a hill, and found himself entering a wild valley with no sign of human habitation. There was a small stream close by, rippling down from the solitudes. He went to it, and knelt to drink.

  As he arose, two ropes descended upon him, from opposite sides, and his arms were firmly pinioned. He looked around, and saw two bearded young men, of not unprepossessing aspect. Each wore tight-fitting clothing and a peaked hat with a long feather, and was armed with knife and sword. One of them motioned into the valley.

  "Come on, thou varlet!" he said.

  They proceeded, and were soon immersed in the rippling and jutting hills.

  Near the head of the valley, and up a hollow to the side, they came to an expansive and well populated clearing. Many men, bearded and heavily armed, were lounging about, dressed fancifully, but for action. There were women also, sturdy and for the most part quite attractive. He found himself speculating briefly on the fierce joy of their dalliance in these invigorating wilds. Then his attention was abruptly drawn ahead, and he was forced to his knees before one who was obviously the leader.

  He was in his middle years, and bore a long flaxen beard and leonine mane of hair; his eyes were large, and of a piercing but softly reassuring green. He sat, still and lordly, and surveyed his captive.

  At length: "Arise!"

  He obeyed, and stood calmly.

  The leader continued, "Thou art doubtless but lately from the City, of abhorred name. Thou art but little acquainted with the usages of life. Do not speak! I know 'tis true."

  He paused for a while, then went on with ruminative authority.

  "Know that thou hast come into the hands of the Knights of Eld," he said. "As our name implies, and indeed our visible delimitations proclaim, we are no cut-throats, or vulgar brawlers. Thou art safe here.

  "But thou art not one of us. Though thou art healthy and strong, and might well prove a formidable adversary, thou takest no delight in combat. Do I speak sooth? Proclaim!"

  He proclaimed that it was sooth indeed; with the silent reservation that, if the combat were sufficiently noble, and profound, and really, fundamentally necessary—but his thoughts were cut short.

  "Then thou hast no place here, unless perchance thou comest for succour, or for sanctuary."

  His answer being negative, the leader continued:

  "Know that our life is combat. There be many bands, against whom we strive. We have made good escape from the emasculate life of yon City, and we have vowed not to let the spirit of gentle manhood perish. The elements strive together, and yet the strife is co-operative: and so should it be with men.

  "I like thee," he continued, with a smile. "Say if thou wilt stay with us, and learn our ways. There is much that we can rede thee, and the benefit will be mutual, and I trust great."

  He was briefly tempted, but still, clearly and promptly, he declined. The leader frowned slightly, and was silent. Then the imperious tones rang out:

  "Thou art strong! And thou shalt be stronger, if ought of ours can aid to the achievement of this result, so much to be desired.

  "Then hearken well. Thy food shall be taken from thee."

  His knapsack was ripped rudely from his back.

  "Thou shalt wander without guide, and no one of us shall take, in any case, further heed of thee. Go with our respect. And may it be that thou fallest not into the hands of those ruder and less magnanimous, like as the Snakes, perdie, or the Mountain Lions. Thou hast been honorably received, and thou art warned. Begone!"

  He left with as much alacrity as he thought became him, and continued on his way. For the remainder of the day he wandered, without attempting to fix a course, or to avoid anything that might come to him. He was lost in thought, with a great sense of well-being that he felt that nothing could overcome.

  As the shadows of evening began to lengthen, and the first stars to shine, he found himself ascending the side of a small but respectably rugged mountain. By the time of total darkness, he had reached the top, and seated himself beneath a redwood tree. He began to feel hungry, but not faint, and with a slight effort of his will the hunger passed away. He sank into a revery, he sat still and thought and contemplated through the long night hours. The cool dews came upon him, and the light winds were whispering in the pale first light, and he was undisturbed.

  He remained on the mountain for three days, eating nothing, and not thinking of food. He felt the opposing forces of life within, through and around him. The harmonious, continually pulsing tension of existence became in a manner clear to him, its great necessity indubitable. He knew that the battle of opposites, the co-operative strife of elements, abilities, tendencies, must be fought within himself; he foresaw no gain from the struggle's objectification, or its transferral to his associations with others. He would have peaceful, profoundly and highly aspiring, adequate companions, or he would remain alone.

  During the fourth night, just before the dawn, he saw a shimmering light over a higher crest in the distance. For an instant it seemed to become a finger, pointing; and then it faded. He arose, light but unfaint from fasting, and set out for the indicated mountain. He encountered no other person along the way.

  It was in the late afternoon that he arrived. It was a large and beautiful valley, into which he slowly descended. It was thickly populated, and filled with a seething, a tremendous activity. Waves of immense, ardent energy enveloped him, compound of great joy and great despair; heart-ravishing music, barely audible, came to him, spasmodically, on the faint breezes. And the weariness and the weakness came to him also, strongly, the exhaustion of his great efforts of the past several days. He lost consciousness, and sank in a seemingly almost boneless heap to the side of the mountain.

  He awoke the following morning in a small hut, secluded, in the shade of a large tree and beside a stream. A spare old man, with a slight beard and twinkling eyes, nodded to him.

  "Smells good, does it?" he asked.

  It smelled very good, and it looked better when the old man brought him an ample breakfast, well prepared. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful.

&nbs
p; "If you don't know where you are," said the old man, "this is a community of artists. We don't always get along very well together," he smiled, "but usually we're minding our own business anyway; and it's good to exchange ideas and insights now and then, and see each other's work. And we co-operate too, especially on the stage productions, like Noh plays, or Wagner, or something contemporary. I can introduce you to a young man who has written some very powerful and apt music for the Aeschylean choruses.

  "I'm a poet myself," he continued, "and a dramatist now and then. I'm pretty modest and easy-going, compared to most of the people here, but I have my moments, and I've done some pretty good things in my life. I'll probably show you some later on. It's a good thing for you I'm in a silent period just now: if the old touch had been on my lyre, I'd never have noticed you; or if I had, I'd not have attended to you. But come on, you look healthy enough: let me show you around."

  He arose to dress, and the old man looked him over with frank admiration.

  "You're a fine figure," he said. "And the beard does you justice: or you do justice to the beard. You're like one of the old Biblical patriarchs. Or like my idea of them, anyway; which may be far enough from the truth."

  They left the hut, and walked beside the stream into the main valley.

  They passed an occasional distracted figure, who paid them no heed. Painters were numerous: one of them, burly and covered with paint, had ostentatiously affixed his canvas to a rock wall, and was facing away from all the beauties of the scenery: with furious strokes he was nearing the completion of his vivid abstraction. One sat cross-legged, quite self-contained, and with a few strokes of the brush, black on white, achieved a bird that seemed almost ready to fly from the paper. Another was painting a meltingly beautiful portrait of his mistress, with flowers in her hair.