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

by Various

  "When we get back, I'll show you a real picture," the old poet said. "It's called Vasuki. He's the king of the snakes, according to the Hindus. I don't know much about the man who did it, except that he's got the most wonderful eyes I ever saw. I tried to do him justice in a sonnet once, but I failed. He just appeared one day, and then disappeared one day, and that's all anyone seems to know. Two of our best young painters went out to look for him over a year ago, and they haven't returned."

  There were musical concerts, operas and plays. There were potters at their wheels, and sculptors with their chisels and their clay. Every art seemed represented.

  "In that hut over there," said the poet, "lives one of the greatest musical geniuses the world has ever known. Better even than Beethoven, I think. Maybe you'll have a chance to meet him, if he turns sociable while you're here. I trust you'll be here for a long time. Maybe you'll stay for good? You seem to have the mark in your forehead."

  He stayed for several months. He luxuriated in the splendor and the beauty of this dedicated life. Great artistry of sound and word, color and form, filled him: but never to overflowing, and never, fully, to satisfaction. He grew weary of the continual reaching out, the perpetual feeding upon dreams. He shared the raptures and the torments of the artists, he felt powerfully and saw deeply, more than ever before: but something was lacking. The occasional flashes of insight were not enough, and the labor, the aspiration, was heart-breaking. What he sought was still beyond, beyond art itself, beyond all possible creation. And yet, it must be attainable.

  He aspired to poetry, he tried to give a voice to his aspiration and his need. But it was not in him. And what if it had been? Why should he write verses to complain that he was not Lit with the Sun? He thought briefly of the Twentieth Century poetry that he had read, the poetry of the Dark Ages, and shuddered at the thought of adding to that store. He would never attempt expression again, until he knew something to express. But when the time came, perhaps it would flow from him in such a golden stream as he remembered from the great masters. Perhaps the poet had not read too mistakenly the sign in his forehead.

  He noticed that some of the artists, and those he considered the profoundest and the surest, were not permanent residents here. They came and went, with a light as of far peaks in their eyes. Like the painter of Vasuki, which was truly a marvelous picture, instinct with a spirit that made most other productions seem like mere daubs of paint. He felt that that man knew something, and that he did not learn it here, that he did not learn it as a painter at all. There must be other places, or another place, in which art and the artists were mature. He had had enough of this unquiet, the greatest ecstasies of which obviously fell below the peace and the assurance that called to him. He was weary of this perpetual straining with materials and methods inadequate to the task.

  And so, reluctantly, he left the artists, and continued his pilgrimage. As he departed, a symphony orchestra was performing Mozart's Requiem, and this perfect artistry, serene and soaring, dedicated to the very Source, and, it seemed, instinct with something of its light, comprised a fitting and a reassuring farewell.

  As the dying strains played upon him, he was filled again with the ravishing verses of Sidney Lanier. Out of the high beauty, these words mingled clearly with his consciousness:

  O long ago the billow-flow of sense Aroused by passion's windy vehemence Upbore me out of depths to heights intense, But not to thee, Nirvana.

  It was so true, and so much beyond him! The meaning was never clear, and yet, against it, all else was a deeper darkness. But it called him, and that was sufficient. He must continue, patiently, on the way.

  The walk was pleasant, and the evergreens were soughing gently, as he passed. Midway in the afternoon he sat down by a convenient spring, and ate quickly a light meal. As he was resting, a man came through the trees before him: balding and rather stout, and apparently approaching the end of middle age. He did not know whether he cared to talk with this man. But he had little choice, for he hailed him with a sort of good-natured camaraderie, and came and sat beside him.

  "You may consider me a philosopher," the man announced; "that is, in the fine old sense, a lover of wisdom. I don't think that will frighten you away," he chuckled. "I think I can see that you agree with Socrates: that you consider an unexamined life to be a life that is not worth living. Is this correct?"

  He replied that it was, and that he was a seeker of wisdom, and hoped one day to prove to be a lover of it—after he had found it.

  The philosopher smiled, and continued, "Perhaps it is best to be a lover of the search; perhaps, indeed, the search itself is the greatest wisdom. This used to be considered a platitude," he laughed, "when education was more wide-spread in the world. But I have never found anything bright and brand new that matches it. I do not want to be one of those who 'give to dust that is a little gilt more laud than gilt o'erdusted'. How about you?"

  He smiled agreement. He was beginning somewhat to like this man: but still he could not respect him, either as an embodiment of wisdom or as a seeker of it. His mind seemed only clever, and rather lazy and complacent with its cleverness: it seemed quite incapable of any really deep probing, or high flight. This was not his idea of a philosopher.

  The object of this scrutiny seemed somewhat to sense its import, and to shrug it off.

  "I could tell it at a glance," he said. "You're one of the most intelligent men I've ever seen escape from that monstrosity of a City. Let me congratulate you! It's a terrible thing to live like that.

  "One immense mechanized mass! One big idiot's delight, full of nothing but idiots, or morons at best. Everybody "happy": food, shelter and sex all taken care of, and real human contact at a minimum: a true earthly paradise. A paradise for morons, that is, for people who really prefer to live worse than hogs. God bless the dear technologists, who keep it going: they as stupid as the majority, of course, just morons with a little mechanical know-how, as the phrase was. And bless whatever powers there are, for the library, and the chance to escape!

  "I don't know how it came about, but there's something behind it. Just before the poor little fools could blow themselves up, the Disasters hit them: and while they were still traumatized, this system began to take care of them. It's a fine thing, I guess, for those that aren't capable of a life worth living. And for those that are, too: it seems to take hold of them at just the right time. It seems that it gives everyone just what he is best fitted for, and then lets him go.

  "It never really let go of me—or got rid of me. I alternate, from city to country: read myself to a standstill, and then travel awhile. It's always pleasant, up here. It's like the coast: the seasons don't change anymore. That is, there aren't any seasons—just hints of them. But maybe you know that by now. Ah—yes. I guessed as much. You look like a man that has been out long enough to—well, to look like a man.

  "I wonder how it will end? The birth-rate's way down, and seems to continue decreasing, even in the country. Maybe the race is gradually dying out: evolution getting rid of an unfit species. But I wouldn't expect it to be so gentle about it.

  "The more I think about it, the better I see what an infinite amount I've got to learn. Another platitude: Newton picking up pebbles on the sea-shore. Maybe the craze for sheer novelty is one of the things that made this mess. I don't know. But I think that there is such a thing as truth, and that it doesn't adapt itself to conditions: conditions have to adapt themselves to it. Do you agree? Yes, I thought so. I think I'll have to be heading back to the library in a few days. I've seen enough this trek.

  "There seems to be a guardian angel, somehow, if you believe in that. The explanation's probably a purely natural one. But people come out and live as they like to, with no hindrance, and they prosper. They do a little simple farming, and always have bumper crops. The weather and the wild animals never hurt them, and they never hurt each other. The ones that like to fight do it, but only with swords and knives, and nobody ever seems to get killed. All th
e literature and art of the world is preserved, for those that want it: as many copies as demanded. Sometimes I bring copies of books with me. It helps, to read them out here. Nature's a lot vaster and more wonderful than we know.

  "Everything seems to be taken care of. Nobody lives in want or fear anymore. Except," he smiled ruefully, "want of understanding, and fear of death. But we can take things philosophically, to use an old popular expression."

  The philosopher paused awhile, thinking, observing his perplexing companion. He could not make him out. Presently he returned to his long-standing provisional solution for all problems.

  "Well, why don't you come back to the library with me? Tramping around out here is all right for a while, it relaxes you and keeps you in touch with things; but meanwhile, time flies. Shall we go?"

  "I think not," the bearded patriarch replied. "The usefulness of books is all but exhausted for me. And even the greatest and fullest truth, set down in a book, I think must be inadequate. It's not an intellectual thing I seek."

  The philosopher smiled tolerantly.

  "You have found that the physical is deadly," he replied. "And you do not appear to be a man who enjoys emotional drunkenness. What is it you want?"

  "Perhaps if I knew, I would have it. I suppose it might be called the spiritual, if there is a word for it. But I know that it is calling me. If you care to come with me, perhaps I can begin to explain."

  The philosopher almost laughed outright.

  "No thank you," he said. "I do not care to take refuge in any vague mysticism. What I know I want really to know, intelligibly and clearly. I am no dreamer."

  "Are they irresponsible dreamers, who are behind these historically unparalleled phenomena? Surely there must be someone there. You have seemed to think so yourself."

  The philosopher smiled wryly, a little sheepishly.

  "Sages in the mountains, eh? Yes, I'll admit having sought them. But they do not seem to want me to find them, and I am going back to the library to follow some leads that I have thought up for myself.

  "I do not care to let my mind abdicate its high position," he concluded, with a slight sneer.

  "Goodbye, then. I wish you well."

  "And so do I wish you," rejoined the philosopher, with an attempt at mocking irony, as he arose. "Goodbye, my friend."

  He began briskly down the path, stopped, and called back, "I hear that there is an island rising, in the Pacific: maybe you can find some wise mermaids out there!"

  He laughed maliciously, and strode quickly out of sight.

  And so the abused budding mystic was left alone, as he desired it.

  "Goethe was right," he thought to himself; "men are all too predominantly wont to scorn what they do not understand. Goethe himself illustrated the tendency very well.

  "There are so many things that cannot be understood by the ordinary intellectual-emotional-sensible mind, no matter how clever it may be, or how brilliant and vigorous, and broad and deep and strong. It lacks too much: it is not self-existent, and self-sustaining. And the things that it cannot understand are the only things of real, undying importance.

  "May I soon find my teacher," he continued, "and be properly trained."

  He stood up, restlessly. His last day among the artists was tumbling piecemeal upon him. Was it Shakespeare that the theatrical group had been performing? Yes, King Lear! Such magnificent art, and so futile. He paced about sadly, trying to remember a certain line—yes, this was it:

  Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all.

  And that's true, too, he sighed with old Gloucester. And surely he was ripe now, if he was ever going to be. He was balanced in the midst of his various tendencies, and one-pointed for a great drive, a penetration to the depths. He would know himself truly, as infinitely more than that which comes and goes, and shines but briefly in the darkness.

  He stood listening, and gazing into the distance. Yes! The call was clear now, and there would be no further stopping along the way. He strode out strongly, and cut due east, heading for the really high mountains, and the farther shore.

  * * *

  Contents

  SEE?

  By Edward G. Robles, Jr.

  Seeing things? Don't go to an analyst--see the Commission--if it doesn't find you first!

  Well, there was this song a few years back. You know the one. Phil Harris singing about a thing that you couldn't get rid of, no matter what you did, a thing so repulsive it made you a social outcast. Never thought I'd see one, though. Dirty Pete found it.

  Don't rush me. I'll tell you about it.

  We're hobos, understand? Now a hobo is a different breed of cat than you think. Oh, people are getting educated to the idea that a hobo will work and move on, whereas a tramp will mooch and move on, and a bum will mooch and hang around, but you still find folks who are ignorant enough to call us bums.

  We're aristocrats, yes sir. If it wasn't for us, you wouldn't enjoy half the little luxuries you do. Oh, don't believe me--talk to your experts. They know that, without the migratory worker, most of the crops wouldn't get harvested. And, if I talk highfalutin' once in a while, don't blame me. Associating with the Professor improves any man's vocabulary, in spite of themselves.

  * * * * *

  There was the four of us, see? We'd been kicking around together for longer than I care to think about. There was the Professor and Dirty Pete and Sacks and Eddie. I'm Eddie. Nicknames are funny things. Take the Professor--he was a real professor once, until he began hitting the bottle. Well, he lost his job, his home, his family, and his rep.

  One morning, he wakes up on Skid Row without a nickel in his jeans and the great-granddaddy of all hangovers. He comes to a decision. Either he could make a man out of hisself, or he could die. Right then, dying looked like the easiest thing to do, but it took more guts that he had to jump off a bridge, so he went on the Road instead.

  After he got over his shakes--and he sure had 'em bad--he decided that, if he never took another drink, it'd be the best thing for him. So he didn't. He had a kind of dignity, though, and he could really talk, so he and I teamed up during the wheat harvest in South Dakota. We made all the stops and, when we hit the peaches in California we picked up Sacks and Dirty Pete.

  Sacks got his monicker because he never wore shoes. He claimed that gunny-sacks, wrapped around his feet and shins, gave as much protection and more freedom, and they were more comfortable, besides costing nix. Since we mostly bought our shoes at the dumps, at four bits a pair, you might say he was stretching a point, but that's one of the laws of the Road. You don't step on the other guy's corns, and he don't step on yours.

  So guess why Dirty Pete was called that. Yeah. He hadn't taken a bath since 'forty-six, when he got out of the army, and he didn't figure on ever takin' another. He was a damn' good worker, though, and nobody'd ever try anything with him around. He wasn't any bigger than a Mack truck. Besides, he was quiet.

  Oh, sure. You wanna know why I'm on the Road. Well, it happens I like whiskers. Trouble is, they're not fashionable, unless you're some kind of an artist, which I'm not. You know, social disapproval. I didn't have the guts to face it, so I lit out. Nobody cares on the Road what you do, so I was okay with my belt-length beard.

  A beard's an enjoyable thing, too. There's a certain kind of thrill you get from stroking it, and feeling its silkiness run through your fingers. And besides, combing it, and keeping it free of burrs, snarls and tangles, sort of keeps your spare moments so full that the devil don't find any idle time to put your hands to work in. If you ask me, I think that the razor has been the downfall of society. And I'm willing to bet I have plenty of company with the same opinion.

  Show me a man who doesn't let his beard grow once in a while, even if it's only for a day or so, and you've shown me a man who thinks more of social pressure than he does of his own comfort. And show me a man who says he likes to shave, and you've shown me a man who is either a liar or is asking for punish
ment.

  * * * * *

  That's enough about us. Now to get on with the story. You know, if the Professor hadn't been around, there would probably have been murder done over the Thing, or at least our little group would've split up, 'cause none of us had the brains to figure it out.

  Pete's an expert scrounger. His eyes are sharp, and he's always on the lookout for a salable piece of goods, even if he can only get a nickel for it. One night, we're sitting in a jungle near Sacramento, trying to figure out whether to go north for the grapes, or south for the grapes. They're all over California, you know, and they pay pretty well.

  Pete, as usual, is out looking, and pretty soon he comes back into camp with this thing in his hand. He handles it like it was hot, but he's pleased he's found it, because he hopes to merchandise it. So he walks up to me, and says, "Hey, Eddie. What'll you gimme for this, huh?"

  I say, "Get that to hell away from me! I'll give you a swift kick in the pants if you don't."

  He looks real surprised. He says, "Huh, I thought maybe you could use it."

  I get up on my feet. I say, real low and careful, because maybe he's joking, "Look, Pete--you oughtta know by this time, I like my beard. Now will you go away?"

  He mooches off, looking like I'd kicked him, and goes over to the Professor. I figure maybe the Professor could use it, so I listen. The Prof looks like he was being offered a live rattlesnake.

  "No, thanks, really, Pete. I have resolved never to touch it again. I hope you don't mind."

  Well, for some reason Pete don't look pleased, and he's real unhappy by this time, but he tries again.

  "Hey, Sacks, what'll you gimme for--"

  He don't get a chance to finish. I'm only listening with half an ear, but I'm so surprised I stand up like I been stuck with a pin. Sacks says, "Whatinell would I do with a left shoe? You know I don't use 'em."

  Pete looks at the thing in his hand, and the Prof and I go over there.