Joan led. Her body was the body of a pretty child, but her personality was the full awakening of all the underpeople who had been imprinted on her. Elaine could not understand it, because Joan was still the little dog-girl, but Joan was now also Elaine, also Hunter. There was no doubt about their movement; the child, no longer an undergirl, led the way and Elaine, human or not, followed.
The door closed behind them. They were back in the Brown and Yellow Corridor. Most of the underpeople were awaiting them. Dozens stared at them. The heavy animal-human smells of the old tunnel rolled against them like thick, slow waves. Elaine felt the beginning of a headache at her temples, but she was much too alert to care.
For a moment, D’joan and Elaine confronted the underpeople.
Most of you have seen paintings or theatricals based upon this scene. The most famous of all is, beyond doubt, the fantastic “one-line drawing” of San Shigonanda—the board of the background almost uniformly gray, with a hint of brown and yellow on the left, a hint of black and red on the right, and in the center the strange white line, almost a smear of paint, which somehow suggests the bewildered girl Elaine and the doom-blessed child Joan.
Charley-is-my-darling was, of course, the first to find his voice. (Elaine did not notice him as a goat-man any more. He seemed an earnest, friendly man of middle age, fighting poor health and an uncertain life with great courage. She now found his smile persuasive and charming. Why, thought Elaine, didn’t I see him that way before? Have I changed?)
Charley-is-my-darling had spoken before Elaine found her wits. “He did it. Are you D’joan?”
“Am I D’joan?” said the child, asking the crowd of deformed, weird people in the tunnel. “Do you think I am D’joan?”
“No! No! You are the lady who was promised—you are the bridge-to-man,” cried a tall yellow-haired old woman, whom Elaine could not remember seeing before. The woman flung herself to her knees in front of the child, and tried to get D’joan’s hand. The child held her hands away, quietly, but firmly, so the woman buried her face in the child’s skirt and wept.
“I am Joan,” said the child, “and I am dog no more. You are people now, people, and if you die with me, you will die men. Isn’t that better than it has ever been before? And you, Ruthie,” said she to the woman at her feet, “stand up and stop crying. Be glad. These are the days that I shall be with you. I know your children were all taken away and killed, Ruthie, and I am sorry. I cannot bring them back. But I give you womanhood. I have even made a person out of Elaine.”
“Who are you?” said Charley-is-my-darling. “Who are you?”
“I’m the little girl you put out to live or die an hour ago. But now I am Joan, not D’joan, and I bring you a weapon. You are women. You are men. You are people. You can use the weapon.”
“What weapon?” The voice was Crawlie’s, from about the third row of spectators.
“Life and life-with,” said the child Joan.
“Don’t be a fool,” said Crawlie. “What’s the weapon? Don’t give us words. We’ve had words and death ever since the world of underpeople began. That’s what people give us—good words, fine principles, and cold murder, year after year, generation after generation. Don’t tell me I’m a person—I’m not. I’m a bison and I know it. An animal fixed up to look like a person. Give me a something to kill with. Let me die fighting.”
Little Joan looked incongruous in her young body and short stature, still wearing the little blue smock in which Elaine had first seen her. She commanded the room. She lifted her hand and the buzz of low voices, which had started while Crawlie was yelling, dropped off to silence again.
“Crawlie,” she said, in a voice that carried all the way down the hall, “peace be with you in the everlasting now.”
Crawlie scowled. She did have the grace to look puzzled at Joan’s message to her, but she did not speak.
“Don’t talk to me, dear people,” said little Joan. “Get used to me first. I bring you life-with. It’s more than love. Love’s a hard, sad, dirty word, a cold word, an old word. It says too much and it promises too little. I bring you something much bigger than love. If you’re alive, you’re alive. If you’re alive-with, then you know the other life is there too—both of you, any of you, all of you. Don’t do anything. Don’t grab, don’t clench, don’t possess. Just be. That’s the weapon. There’s not a flame or a gun or a poison that can stop it.”
“I want to believe you,” said Mabel, “but I don’t know how to.”
“Don’t believe me,” said little Joan. “Just wait and let things happen. Let me through, good people. I have to sleep for a while. Elaine will watch me while I sleep and when I get up, I will tell you why you are underpeople no longer.”
Joan started to move forward—
A wild ululating screech split the corridor.
Everyone looked around to see where it came from.
It was almost like the shriek of a fighting bird, but the sound came from among them.
Elaine saw it first.
Crawlie had a knife and just as the cry ended, she flung herself on Joan.
Child and woman fell on the floor, their dresses a tangle. The large hand rose up twice with the knife, and the second time it came up red.
From the hot shocking burn in her side, Elaine knew that she must herself have taken one of the stabs. She could not tell whether Joan was still living.
The undermen pulled Crawlie off the child.
Crawlie was white with rage. “Words, words, words. She’ll kill us all with her words.”
A large, fat man, with the muzzle of a bear on the front of an otherwise human-looking head and body, stepped around the man who held Crawlie. He gave her one tremendous slap. She dropped to the floor unconscious. The knife, stained with blood, fell on the old worn carpet. (Elaine thought automatically: restorative for her later; check neck vertebrae; no problem of bleeding.)
For the first time in her life, Elaine functioned as a wholly efficient witch. She helped the people pull the clothing from little Joan. The tiny body, with the heavy purple-dark blood pumping out from just below the rib-cage, looked hurt and fragile. Elaine reached in her left handbag. She had a surgical radar pen. She held it to her eye and looked through the flesh, up and down the wound. The peritoneum was punctured, the liver cut, the upper folds of the large intestine were perforated in two places. When she saw this, she knew what to do. She brushed the bystanders aside and got to work.
First she glued the cuts from the inside out, starting with the damage to the liver. Each touch of the organic adhesive was preceded by a tiny spray of re-coding powder, designed to reinforce the capacity of the injured organ to restore itself. The probing, pressing, squeezing took eleven minutes. Before it was finished, Joan had awakened, and was murmuring:
“Am I dying?”
“Not at all,” said Elaine, “unless these human medicines poison your dog blood.”
“Who did it?”
“Crawlie?”
“Why?” said the child. “Why? Is she hurt too? Where is she?”
“Not as hurt as she is going to be,” said the goat-man, Charley-is-my-darling. “If she lives, we’ll fix her up and try her and put her to death.”
“No, you won’t,” said Joan. “You’re going to love her. You must.”
The goat-man looked bewildered.
He turned in his perplexity to Elaine. “Better have a look at Crawlie.” said he. “Maybe Orson killed her with that slap. He’s a bear, you know.”
“So I saw,” said Elaine, drily. What did the man think that thing looked like, a hummingbird?
She walked over to the body of Crawlie. As soon as she touched the shoulders, she knew that she was in for trouble. The outer appearances were human, but the musculature beneath was not. She suspected that the laboratories had left Crawlie terribly strong, keeping the buffalo strength and obstinacy for some remote industrial reason of their own. She took out a brainlink, a close-range telepathic hookup which worked
only briefly and slightly, to see if the mind still functioned. As she reached for Crawlie’s head to attach it, the unconscious girl sprang suddenly to life, jumped to her feet, and said:
“No, you don’t! You don’t peep me, you dirty human!”
“Crawlie, stand still.”
“Don’t boss me, you monster!”
“Crawlie, that’s a bad thing to say.” It was eerie to hear such a commanding voice coming from the throat and mouth of a small child. Small she might have been, but Joan commanded the scene.
“I don’t care what I say. You all hate me.”
“That’s not true, Crawlie.”
“You’re a dog and now you’re a person. You’re born a traitor. Dogs have always sided with people. You hated me even before you went into that room and changed into something else. Now you are going to kill us all.”
“We may die, Crawlie, but I won’t do it.”
“Well, you hate me, anyhow. You’ve always hated me.”
“You may not believe it.” said Joan, “but I’ve always loved you. You were the prettiest woman in our whole corridor.”
Crawlie laughed. The sound gave Elaine gooseflesh. “Suppose I believed it. How could I live if I thought that people loved me? If I believed you, I would have to tear myself to pieces, to break my brains on the wall, to do—” The laughter changed to sobs, but Crawlie managed to resume talking: “You things are so stupid that you don’t even know that you’re monsters. You’re not people. You never will be people. I’m one of you myself. I’m honest enough to admit what I am. We’re dirt, we’re nothing, we’re things that are less than machines. We hide in the earth like dirt and when people kill us they do not weep. At least we were hiding. Now you come along, you and your tame human woman”—Crawlie glared briefly at Elaine—“and you try to change even that. I’ll kill you again if I can, you dirt, you slut, you dog! What are you doing with that child’s body? We don’t even know who you are now. Can you tell us?”
The bear-man had moved up close to Crawlie, unnoticed by her, and was ready to slap her down again if she moved against little Joan.
Joan looked straight at him and with a mere movement of her eyes she commanded him not to strike.
“I’m tired,” she said, “I’m tired, Crawlie. I’m a thousand years old when I am not even five. And I am Elaine now, and I am Hunter too, and I am the Lady Panc Ashash, and I know a great many more things than I thought I would ever know. I have work to do, Crawlie, because I love you, and I think I will die soon. But please, good people, first let me rest.”
The bear-man was on Crawlie’s right. On her left, there had moved up a snake-woman. The face was pretty and human, except for the thin forked tongue which ran in and out of the mouth like a dying flame. She had good shoulders and hips but no breasts at all. She wore empty golden brassiere cups which swung against her chest. Her hands looked as though they might be stronger than steel. Crawlie started to move toward Joan, and the snake-woman hissed.
It was the snake hiss of Old Earth.
For a second, every animal-person in the corridor stopped breathing. They all stared at the snake-woman. She hissed again, looking straight at Crawlie. The sound was an abomination in that narrow space. Elaine saw that Joan tightened up like a little dog, Charley-is-my-darling looked as though he was ready to leap twenty meters in one jump, and Elaine herself felt an impulse to strike, to kill, to destroy. The hiss was a challenge to them all.
The snake-woman looked around calmly, fully aware of the attention she had obtained.
“Don’t worry, dear people. See, I’m using Joan’s name for all of us. I’m not going to hurt Crawlie, not unless she hurts Joan. But if she hurts Joan, if anybody hurts Joan, they will have me to deal with. You have a good idea who I am. We S-people have great strength, high intelligence, and no fear at all. You know we cannot breed. People have to make us one by one, out of ordinary snakes. Do not cross me, dear people. I want to learn about this new love which Joan is bringing, and nobody is going to hurt Joan while I am here. Do you hear me, people? Nobody. Try it, and you die. I think I could kill almost all of you before I died, even if you all attacked me at once. Do you hear me, people? Leave Joan alone. That goes for you, too, you soft human woman. I am not afraid of you either. You there,” said she to the bear-man, “pick little Joan up and carry her to a quiet bed. She must rest. She must be quiet for a while. You be quiet too, all you people, or you will meet me. Me.” Her black eyes roved across their faces. The snake-woman moved forward and they parted in front of her, as though she were the only solid being in a throng of ghosts.
Her eyes rested a moment on Elaine. Elaine met the gaze, but it was an uncomfortable thing to do. The black eyes with neither eyebrows nor lashes seemed full of intelligence and devoid of emotion. Orson, the bear-man, followed obediently behind. He carried little Joan.
As the child passed Elaine she tried to stay awake. She murmured, “Make me bigger. Please make me bigger. Right away.”
“I don’t know how…” said Elaine.
The child struggled to full awakening. “I’ll have work to do. Work…and maybe my death to die. It will all be wasted if I am this little. Make me bigger.”
“But—” protested Elaine again.
“If you don’t know, ask the lady.”
“What lady?”
The S-woman had paused, listening to the conversation. She cut in.
“The Lady Panc Ashash, of course. The dead one. Do you think that a living Lady of the Instrumentality would do anything but kill us all?”
As the snake-woman and Orson carried Joan away, Charley-is-my-darling came up to Elaine and said, “Do you want to go?”
“Where?”
“To the Lady Panc Ashash, of course.”
“Me?” said Elaine. “Now?” said Elaine, even more emphatically. “Of course not,” said Elaine, pronouncing each word as though it were a law. “What do you think I am? A few hours ago I did not even know that you existed. I wasn’t sure about the word ‘death.’ I just assumed that everything terminated at four hundred years, the way it should. It’s been hours of danger, and everybody has been threatening everybody else for all that time. I’m tired and I’m sleepy and I’m dirty, and I’ve got to take care of myself, and besides—”
She stopped suddenly and bit her lip. She had started to say, and besides, my body is all worn out with that dreamlike love-making which the Hunter and I had together. That was not the business of Charley-is-my-darling: he was goat enough as he was. His mind was goatish and would not see the dignity of it all.
The goat-man said, very gently, “You are making history, Elaine, and when you make history you cannot always take care of all the little things too. Are you happier and more important than you ever were before? Yes? Aren’t you a different you from the person who met Balthasar just a few hours ago?”
Elaine was taken aback by the seriousness. She nodded.
“Stay hungry and tired. Stay dirty. Just a little longer. Time must not be wasted. You can talk to the Lady Panc Ashash. Find out what we must do about little Joan. When you come back with further instructions, I will take care of you myself. This tunnel is not as bad a town as it looks. We will have everything you could need, in the Room of Englok. Englok himself built it, long ago. Work just a little longer, and then you can eat and rest. We have everything here. ‘I am the citizen of no mean city.’ But first you must help Joan. You love Joan, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I do,” she said.
“Then help us just a little bit more.”
With death? she thought. With murder? With violation of law? But—but it was all for Joan.
It was thus that Elaine went to the camouflaged door, went out under the open sky again, saw the great saucer of Upper Kalma reaching out over the Old Lower City. She talked to the voice of the Lady Panc Ashash, and obtained certain instructions, together with other messages. Later, she was able to repeat them, but she was too tired to make out their real sense.
> She staggered back to the place in the wall where she thought the door to be, leaned against it, and nothing happened.
“Further down, Elaine, further down. Hurry! When I used to be me, I too got tired,” came the strong whisper of the Lady Panc Ashash, “but do hurry!”
Elaine stepped away from the wall, looking at it.
A beam of light struck her.
The Instrumentality had found her.
She rushed wildly at the wall.
The door gaped briefly. The strong welcome hand of Charley-is-my-darling helped her in.
“The light! The light!” cried Elaine. “I’ve killed us all. They saw me.”
“Not yet,” smiled the goat-man, with his quick crooked intelligent smile. “I may not be educated, but I am pretty smart.”
He reached toward the inner gate, glanced back at Elaine appraisingly, and then shoved a man-sized robot through the door.
“There it goes, a sweeper about your size. No memory bank. A worn-out brain. Just simple motivations. If they come down to see what they thought they saw, they will see this instead. We keep a bunch of these at the door. We don’t go out much, but when we do, it’s handy to have these to cover up with.”
He took her by the arm. “While you eat, you can tell me. Can we make her bigger…?”
“Who?”
“Joan, of course. Our Joan. That’s what you went to find out for us.”
Elaine had to inventory her own mind to see what the Lady Panc Ashash had said on that subject. In a moment she remembered.
“You need a pod. And a jelly bath. And narcotics, because it will hurt. Four hours.”
“Wonderful,” said Charley-is-my-darling, leading her deeper and deeper into the tunnel.
“But what’s the use of it,” said Elaine, “if I’ve ruined us all? The Instrumentality saw me coming in. They will follow. They will kill all of you, even Joan. Where is the Hunter? Shouldn’t I sleep first?” She felt her lips go thick with fatigue; she had not rested or eaten since she took that chance on the strange little door between Waterrocky Road and the Shopping Bar.
The Rediscovery of Man - The Complete Short Science Fiction of Cordwainer Smith - Illustrated Page 35
