Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07

by Bridge of Ashes

  And in that moment we knew, I knew.

  Once there was a man. And so I am.

  He who showed me these things claimed that nothing was ever done. He died at that moment also, again, that I might live. Yet he lives in me still. A man there once was.

  And I fled through all I had ever been, over that bridge of ashes, the past. To each, each, as he died or was conquered. And I was there. There were men. And I am so.

  Fled that final image that gave me birth, each to each to each, and it returned, ever, to the final sight of Gilbert Van Duyn's eyes, the first sight of my own. 1.1 fled.

  Back, back to the place where the dark man lay bleeding. Dying? Dying also, like the others? But he lived, and rose, and moved again among his children. I saw through his eyes, and I knew. Once a man there was. And a woman. And I knew. I began to understand.

  All, all, all of them came clear to me now. The hundreds I had known. Or was it more? There is no count. All. I knelt atop the building and raised the .30/06, sighting in on the governor. Fallen, I watched my blood pool as the Persian army pressed the attack. There, in the sand, I strove to create the calculus, when the sword came into me. And you, my Th6rese! Where are you tonight? My words have been eaten by the wind. My vision doubles in my head and the world is twice as monstrous. I squeeze the trigger and the man falls before thunder. I shift the barrel. Here in my cell, I contemplate the Terror and think upon the future of man. My own end will be small by comparison. I sketch the elements, here at Amboise, the great forces that walk naked in the air and on the seas, the high storms with their winds, the rushing of mighty waves. I shoot again and another man falls. I wipe the .30/06 quickly but carefully, as planned, lean it against the wall beside the mark of the Children of the Earth, turn, crouching, and begin my retreat along the rooftops. There, atop the building, I follow the dark man's gesture and regard the East River, a piece of muddy glass, and the hazed and grainy sky where strands of smoke lay like bloated things on a beach. Then to the other side, where I look upon the tangled city. Driving, driving through the night, a pain in my shoulder and hoping for rain. But the land lay still and rugged. So be it. I may prefer it another way, yet still it pleases me that the grasses are dry and the animals in their burrows. The pleasure and the pride of humanity are best enjoyed against the heedlessness, the slumbering power of the Earth. Even when it moves to crush, it adds something. To isolate oneself too much from it detracts from both our achievements and our failures. We must feel the forces we live with.. •.

  And the white circle on the field of blue remains for a moment as all else collapses about me. Then it, too, fades and is gone. Only I remain, a rock fresh-exposed above the beat of the surf. I am Dennis Guise.

  Alec has left the room, is hurrying to fetch a doctor. The pain lessens in my side as I understand.

  Alec's recent thoughts echo within me and I turn my head to regard the acrylics which dry so fast, seeing there on the easel the lady he has left me, smiling.

  Once there was a man.

  I ran a fever. I know that I was delirious. I slept a lot. I was in and out of the fog countless times during the next couple of days. As things finally settled, I became aware once again of the dispensary ceiling and of Alec's gentle presence at my side.

  "Got any water there?" I asked him.

  "Just a minute," he said, and I heard him pour it "Here you are."

  He passed me a glass with a bent straw in it. I held it with both hands and drank.

  "Thanks," I said, passing it back.

  "How are you—feeling?"

  I managed a chuckle. I could feel his mental probing. Better not to block it entirely at this point, or to let him know that I was blocking at all—or that I was even aware of his quick survey.

  "I am—myself," I said. "Ask me my name, if you wish."

  "Never mind. I would give a lot to understand all the preliminaries—to this."

  "Me, too. I am weak. I feel well, though."

  "What do you remember of the events of the past two months?"

  "Not much. Fragments. Disconnected impressions."

  "You are a new person."

  "Glad to hear you say it. I think so, too." 115

  "Well, I have a feeling that you have just taken a major step toward recovery."

  "I could use another drink."

  He refilled the glass and I emptied it. I covered my mouth and yawned after I had passed it back to him.

  "You seem to be right-handed."

  "So I do. I am sorry, but I think that I am going back to sleep again."

  "Sure. Rest easy. I will be around. You should be up and out of here in no time now, unless my guess is way off."

  I nodded and let my eyelids droop.

  "Good," I said. "Glad to hear it."

  I closed my eyes and let my mind swim. Alec rose and departed.

  I knew, even then, what I had to do, and I was scared. I had to find one man, out of the entire population of the Earth, and ask him how to go about it Which meant that I had to convince the staff here of my cure—I suppose that is a better word than "recovery," since I had never been normal—and of my continuing stability in order to be permitted to return to Earth. Which meant I must work to assure this condition. Time was essential, or so it seemed to me then. I hoped that I had not happened too late.

  I was not at all clear as to the particulars of what it was that separated me from the others I had known and been. It seemed worth seeking the information just then, especially since there was not much else I could do at the moment. With a full medical staff about, it was just a matter of locating the proper person.

  I moved forth with my mind, searching.

  Shortly, I found that person, a woman working in the lab two buildings over, a molecular biologist, a Dr. Holmes. The thoughts were not right there at the surface, but there were indications that she had the concepts on file. I sought more deeply.

  Yes. J. B. S. Haldane had once calculated that the deaths resulting from the operation of natural selection in the substitution of a new model gene for an old one were so great that the species could only afford the establishment of a new gene every millennium or so. This view had held sway for a long while, but then a new notion of mutationism arose in 1968. The rapid growth of molecular biology around that time had had a lot to do with it. In the February issue of that year's Nature there had appeared a paper by the geneticist Motoo Kimura, wherein he speculated over the great differences then recently determined to exist among the hemoglobin, cytochrome c and other molecules in various species of animals. They were much commoner than had previously been supposed. Considering the large number of molecules and genes, it would seem that a mutation must be established every few years. He felt that such a high rate of molecular evolution was only feasible if most of them were neither helpful nor harmful, representing random, neutral mutations drifting through populations. This raised hell among classical evolutionaries because it indicated that evolution might be influenced by a strong element of random genetic drift, in other words a much higher chance factor, than good old natural selection. The new techniques, put to work in earnest on seeking molecular alternatives in living populations, continued to uncover them in abundance—gratuitous changes, giving rise to molecular diversity.... Which meant...

  Which meant that the sleeping masters of human evolution, of whom the dark man had informed Van Duyn, could not possibly have a complete say in the development of the species. They would have had more control long ago, with a smaller population, in determining the route we would take. Once established as man, however, once spread across the entire globe and breeding our way through the hundreds of millions and finally the billions, there was no way to continue this control by means of whatever primary influences they had once exercised. Nor was this necessary, since we were proceeding in the proper direction. Once we were established as a rational, toolmaking crowd, their task shifted over to one of superintendancy, to keeping a watchful eye or three on our ideas, philosophie
s, technological developments, pruning the undesired and encouraging its opposite. This was all that they could do, once we had passed some numerical milestones. They could not fully predict nor control the random genetic developments which must arise with statistically greater frequency with the increasing population. It was no special response in terms of natural selection for mankind to have come up with the TP gene, but we had. There was no obvious threat in it, and the sleepers had not moved against us. Now, though, I existed. I understood the situation, I had access to the past experience of the race....

  And I was scared, for I would now have to get a clean bill of health and go looking for the man. . . .

  And I was tired. Even thinking about it was going to have to wait a little longer....

  In the weeks and months that followed, I learned. I attended classes, I followed programmed courses of study, I listened to tapes and watched viewscreens, I talked with Alec and let him see what I wished him to see in my mind. I participated in group therapy sessions, I exercised my special talent to learn of more things. I waited.

  During this time, I felt the easing of tension about me, and I came to regard Alec more as a friend than a therapist. We talked about a great variety of subjects, played games together in the gym. A later scan of Dr. Chalmers' thinking equipment even showed me that Alec had broached the subject of my return to Earth somewhat ahead of schedule.

  "You really ought to be doing more calisthenics," Alec had said. "Knee bends with weights would be useful."

  "Sounds awful," I replied.

  "Can't let yourself waste away," he said. "Supposing they recommended a trial visit down yonder and you were in no shape to go?"

  "Are they thinking about it?"

  "I couldn't say. But if they were to, would you want to hang back for a month or so, just because you had not been paying attention to the physical preliminaries?"

  "Now that you mention it," I said, "no. But the whole idea raises a matter I have not really spent any time thinking about."

  "What is that?"

  "My parents. I have already gathered that their separation is probably a permanent thing. When the time does come for me to go back, where do I go?"

  Alec moistened his lips and looked away.

  "Do not worry about all that anxiety business," I said. "It is a pretty neutral matter to me after all the sessions I have had with Dr. McGinley. I just want to know where I go when I do go."

  "Dennis, the matter has not really been discussed yet. I do not know whether your parents will fight over your custody. Do you have a preference?"

  "As I said, I have not really given the matter much thought. Would my choice count for much?"

  "From all reports I have received, your parents are both reasonable people. They have been very pleased with your progress here. They both want to see you again. You have had letters from both of them. Was there anything in them that might influence your preference?"

  "No."

  "Then I can only suggest that you spend some time thinking about which one you would rather be with. There is still plenty of time. When the day does come that you have to make a choice, I can add a suggestion that it would be best for your adjustment to honor your preference—for whatever that may be worth."

  "Thanks, Alec. Show me some of the exercises I should be doing, huh?"

  ... And this was what caused me to go rummaging in Dr. Chalmers' head. I had found myself loathe to probe Alec since we had become friends.

  Later, I thought about the matters he had raised. My father had money, power, connections—all of which could be useful in my quest—and he was now living in Washington, near to so many other things and places which might benefit me in the search. My mother was still in northern New Mexico, tending her flowers, isolated. But my father would not have much time for me—a good thing, if that was all there would be to it. Only, with full access to my own impressions past, I could now form a picture of the man. It was my guess that he would enroll me in a fancy private school, someplace where they would make a fuss about nonattendance, would keep a tight rein on me. On the other hand, I was certain that I could persuade my mother to let me stay at home, coming and going pretty much as I chose, continuing my education in programmed units via a rented machine similar to the one I was using here. At least, I would have a better chance of working things that way with her than I would with him.

  Then I asked myself another: Aside from these considerations, if everything else were simple and uncomplicated, who would I really want to go to?

  I could not make up my mind. I almost welcomed the external factors, terrible as they were, which relieved me of the necessity of making a real choice.

  And so I prepared myself, physically and mentally, for my return. A month later, the matter was mentioned officially. Dr. Chalmers came around to see me, commended my progress, told me he felt that perhaps another month of preparation and observation was in order and if everything continued as was expected I could go home and see how things worked out. It was then that he asked me which home I might prefer. Keeping in tune with the therapeutic note I had sounded, I told him that I felt the simpler the environment the more comfortable I might feel. He seemed to think that was a good choice, and I saw in his mind that I would have his recommendation, also.

  Which is how things worked out. I was given a provisionally clean bill the following month and a date was set. I realized during that time that I was growing increasingly anxious, not so much over the task I had set myself, but simply at the thought of heading for that place in the sky, so full of people and things. I visited the observation deck on numerous occasions, assumed my old chair and watched the world, glowing, mysterious, attracting and frightening by turns, far and yet near. I fancied a summons, I assumed a threat.

  Despite the exposure involved in all my vicarious existences and the sum of my salvaged personal impressions, I had never been there before, as a rational, individual being. I talked about it with Alec and he told me that it was a natural feeling, a thing to be expected, a thing that would vanish not too long after I got back. I had already thought these thoughts myself, but as with so many other conclusions, it was nevertheless comforting to hear them from another.

  In my room, I paced, stared at the paintings, paced some more, thumbed through the sketches, again and again. The lady smiled.

  Finally, I packed them all carefully and went to sit by the fountain. I walked among the flowerbeds.

  I began taking all my meals in the cafeteria, and for the first time I began talking with the other patients. There was one old man whose eyes misted over when he learned that I was going back.

  "Go to New Jersey," he said,

  "New Jersey?"

  "Not the cities. The pinelands. They still stand as they did when I was a boy. Go there one day and look at the trees. Get out and walk among them. If you ever do that, think of me then," he said. "Promise."

  He reached out and laid a hand on my arm, veins like blue worms crawling across the back of his hand. He leaned forward and his breath was bad.

  "Promise."

  I nodded. I could not speak, for his tremor, his faded eyes, his odor, were lost in the barrage of thoughts that fell upon me: cranberries, huckleberries, blueberries, sweet fern, sheep laurel, dewy mornings, sunshot days, foggy evenings, bogs, the smell of pine, a gentle rainfall, autumn smoke, winter's chill, homemade whisky ... Pieces, textures ... Memories. His vanished youth. A place to which he literally could not go home. With difficulty, I raised a shield against these things.

  "I will remember," I said finally; and thereafter I maintained a tight shield when speaking with my fellow patients.

  When the time came, most of the staff and some of the patients turned out to see me off. I said my goodbyes, to Alec, to Dr. Chalmers, to the others, then boarded the monorail that was to take me to Luna Station. I tried to hide my emotions with a forced casual-ness, not wanting them to think I was anything less than stable at this point. However, my voice broke and I
embraced Alec before I boarded. This was, after all, the only real home I had known, as myself, Dennis Guise. I paid little heed to the rocks, the craters, the inky shadows I raced past. I thought only of what I was leaving and where I was going.

  I was landed at the field in Texas, and my mother met me there. My first impressions of Earth were mainly of the countless thoughts which swirled about. It was easy to see how they had unbalanced me as a child. Now, though, I was able to put them aside, ignore them, force them into the background, turn them off.

  "Dennis ..." she said, and there were tears in her eyes. She kissed me. "You—you understand things now?"

  "Yes," I said. "I'm all right."

  . . . And all this does not bother you?

  There was an initial shock. It has already passed. 1 can handle the thoughts now.

  You will never know what it was like.

  I remember some things.

  It is so good to see you well, to finally know you.. . .

  I nodded and tried to smile.

  We are going home now. Come this way.

  She took my arm and led me from the terminal.

  How to begin?

  It was strange, settling into my old room. I had memories of the place, but it was almost as if they belonged to someone else, a phenomenon with which I was not entirely unfamiliar. I spent days of introspection, sifting through my old recollections of the place. This was less an exercise in morbidity than a search for things of value.

  The teaching machine arrived and was installed. My father was footing the bill for it. I spoke with him on a number of occasions. He wanted me to come see him as soon as I felt able. He promised to come see me as soon as he could get away. I began using the machine.

  Established now, with some of my feelings and thoughts sorted out, I commenced the efforts I had been contemplating since my arousal in the dispensary on Luna.

  Each day, I undertook a telepathic search, swinging and skimming about the world, seeking one mind or some sign of its existence. The act was not as hopeless as it sounds, for I was certain that the one I sought would stand out like a beacon on a dark night. Even as the days passed without the slightest intimation of his existence, I did not grow discouraged. The world is a large place. I was learning things, I was refining my skills.