by Ian Watson
When enough had gathered, he went back inside and led the old man out. Blood still clung to the Bruxo's lips and nose in a dry black crust that flies settled on, which he was too weary to wave off. His bodypaint had run and mixed till he looked like a mess of balled-up plasticine, with his macaw-feather pubic bush tatty and mud-stained now.
The old Shaman looked down at the mud that remained of the flood, and smiled.
Together, uproariously, the Xemahoa men laughed.
They took their laughter seriously, sending it booming round the clearing, chasing away the last gremlins of the flood. Of all the men, only the apprentice refused to laugh, keeping a stiff face and finally slinking away with his tail between his legs — Kayapi laughed volubly in the direction of his retreat, hooting him off the scene.
The Bruxo and Kayapi set off for the hut where the baby lay.
At the taboo hut, Kayapi gestured Chester and Zwingler aside impatiently, took the old man by the arm and led him in. Sole approached Pierre.
“What are they going to do with the baby? Any idea?”
Pierre shrugged his shoulders, contemptuously as Kayapi.
They stayed inside a long time, till the stars came out and the moon to light the clearing. Chester and Zwingler stood behind the other Indians, nervously alert for sounds, Chester fingering the dart gun and Zwingler consulting his watch — and except for the absence of bonfires on their stands of stakes in the deeper floodwater of three days before and the absence of a mother in the hut, it was a replica of the original birth scene. From within the hut after a time came a loud groaning noise, and from the women grouped outside, who hadn't participated during the events three days previously except as passive spectators, arose in response a loud groan — mimic birth pains which the Xemahoa men promptly uttered short barking laughs at.
“Fuckin' thing would have bin dead if I hadn't got it fed,” growled Chester. “This whole thing's so fuckin' arbitrary — like you said, Mr Zwingler.”
“They know perfectly well what they're doing,” Pierre rebuked him loftily, a shade too sanctimoniously so it seemed to Sole.
After a period of groaning and laughter under the moonlight, the Bruxo appeared in the hut doorway, spoke to the tribe.
Pierre condescendingly interpreted.
“Changes are coming to pass. Let me tell you a fresh story of how the snake has come out of the stone again — how he has coiled himself round the outside of the stone. Bruxo says that the child lacks eyes because he doesn't need them. Eyes are the tunnel the brain looks through. However this child's brain is already outside of his head, watching us and knowing us without the need of eyes — the brain itself looks out . . .”
“I sure admire this guy's inventiveness.”
“Imbecile — this is the birth of mythic thinking. A vast change could be coming over this inbred people.”
“Damn cute opportunism, I still say. Took him three days to work out an alibi—”
“If we could only explain our own culture shocks to ourselves as meaningfully,” wished Sole.
“Quite!” breathed Pierre intensely, giving him the first sympathetic look for many hours.
Then Kayapi came out carrying the ruptured child into the moonlight — the baby uttering sharp kitten cries. “Christ, be careful,” hissed Chester, handling his dart gun impotently.
Kayapi held the child up high to the stars and moon, walked among the Xemahoa daintily, delicately, as the Bruxo spoke stumblingly on from the doorway.
“The thinking brain has come outside. Have dreams left the Xemahoa people then? he asks. No, for Kayapi my son from Outside, who knows the Outside World, will put dreams back inside the Xemahoa stone. How? Watch him. Water is gone from xe-wo-i — that's the tree the fungus is parasitic on. The maka-i mother has gone to lie in xe-wo-i's arms—”
The Bruxo stumbled towards the crowd which divided and fell in behind him and Kayapi, as Kayapi bore the baby out into the jungle, holding it high.
They came to the tree where Chester had lodged the mother's body — it still hung in the tree crotch. “Hey, is that the tree?”
“How the hell do I know?” snapped Pierre. “I told you I never knew—”
“Big coincidence,” sneered Chester. “Maybe he's just makin' out that's the fungus tree. Somebody must have slipped into their hut and told 'em I put her there. Everything's grist to that bastard's mill—”
“Maybe the Bruxo divined it,” sniggered Zwingler. “Shut up, he's saying she is buried in the sky — I suppose he means the air, rather than underground — so that maka-i may have room to re-enter the earth and the Xemahoa to dream new dreams—”
“He's plannin' on gettin' rid of the baby, I'm tellin' you — I can smell it a mile off!”
“Damn it, Chester, we're powerless — watch! — be an observer.”
“At least until you hear your helicopter coming,” Pierre smiled grimly.
“At least till that.”
Kayapi knelt by the tree roots, laid the baby down on the still wet soil, began scooping at the mud like a dog with his forepaws intent on burying a bone.
Dug a hole.
Some of the yellow clay he exposed he scooped into his mouth, chewed and swallowed down.
“Bruxo says he will return to the Xemahoa people — to the inside of the tribe — bringing inside with him what was outside, the escaped dreams—”
Kayapi picked the baby up — and the women groaned in unison — and the men gave vent to guttural barking laughter.
Abruptly he brought the baby to his mouth, sank his teeth into the brain hernias. For minutes he gnawed as ravenous-seeming as a wild dog or vulture at the baby's brain hernias, while the women groaned and the men laughed, gulping that living brainmatter down till he'd peeled brain back to the smooth rifted skull.
Sole vomited as Kayapi's tongue flicked into the fissures deep as he could, slobbering at the soft baby skull in a cannibalistic french kiss.
Finally he thrust the spent body into the hole he'd dug, without touching the hernias of the guts, pressed down the soil around it, hid it; patted the soil down with a smug grin. . .
Face distorted, Pierre stared at Sole and his pool of root and fish vomit.
“You sell brains, now he eats them!” he screamed. “Oh but the universe is a filthy cannibal place — existence itself is exploitation! Don't your space monsters just prove that too. Come on Chris, tell me some more about the wonders of the galaxy — then let's get out there and eat knowledge!” Pierre jabbed a finger viciously up at the overhead leafcover, hiding the bland cold stars . . .
Thereafter Kayapi strutted about, while the old Bruxo lay in a state of collapse inside the taboo hut on the pallet where the baby had been born.
Chester watched over the old man sullenly — over the last remaining Self-Embedding Brain — trying to make things tolerable for him.
TWENTY-ONE
SECRET & SENSITIVE
Subject: WASHINGTON SPECIAL ACTION GROUP MEETING #2 CONCERNING PROJECT “LEAPFROG”
7. It is remarkable to what extent the 'Brazilian Revolution' has already, by sheer adjacency, thrown Argentina, Uruguay and Guyana into widespread civil turmoil, and Paraguay into a state bordering on anarchy — and had serious repercussions in nations as far removed from Brazil geographically as the Republic of South Africa, Spain and Japan. In the 'supersaturated' cultural context of Planet Earth today, this kind of trigger effect is predictable, and it is worth noting that the contagion may be as much mental, as strictly geographical.
8. This 'trigger effect' has been subjected to a mathematical analysis of the psychosocial vectors involved, by the Rand Corporation. It is in no way a statement of the outmoded panic concept popularly known as the 'Domino Theory'. This is a scientific model and must be heeded as such. Even the isolationist philosophy of many senior figures in the Administration cannot reasonably baulk at acceptance of a need for exemplary action at this point — action based not upon 'political' hypotheses of dubious merit, as heret
ofore, but upon the psychosocial realities of Planet Earth. (See the attached Rand Corporation document on the testing out in practice of the math models involved, in Puerto Rico, and in Angola.)
9. It is evident that the events in Brazil, if not reversed, represent an immediate 50% attrition of US investment and resource potential for the whole subcontinent.
10. Attempting to control these events by applying 'conventional' pressures is unlikely to prove effective. There is considerable evidence that key elements in the Brazilian Administration, hitherto considered stable and pro-American, have abruptly polarized in the opposite direction.
11. The precipitating event in this upsurge of nationalistic and even of extreme xenophobic reactions is of course the unfortunate — and unforeseen — monitoring by a Chinese satellite of the small nuclear explosions that breached the dam codenamed 'Niagara'. The People's Republic Government's announcement of this, against a background of rising insurgency inside Brazil itself, was a propaganda stroke of the first order. The equally unfortunate and unforeseen flood devastation produced by project 'Niagara Falls' provides the final obstacle to a 'conventional' political solution to the nationalistic frenzy now gripping Brazil and much of Latin America.
12. It is vital to neutralize the snowballing set of events in Latin America; to trigger an 'anti-catalyst' to divert these events. And this 'anti-catalyst' must be as momentous and of the same order as the Amazon disaster.
13. It is therefore recommended that Project 'Leapfrog' should be 'shunted' along these diversionary lines.
(See attached Rand Corporation working paper, 'Transfer of Threat: an analysis of hostility transferred from an actual and internal enemy to an imaginary and external enemy', para 72, '. . . to a theoretically plausible yet statistically unlikely “Alien Menace”'.)
14. It is recommended that in order to maximize the Technological payoff from Project 'Leapfrog', while at the same time diverting the South American revolutionary situation, Project 'Mulekick' should be proceeded with at speed.
15. It will be necessary to inform the Soviet Government as soon as (i.e. during) the delivery of 'Mulekick'. And to adopt a posture of national defence readiness, whilst guaranteeing equal rights to share any technical data accruing as pay-off.
TWENTY-TWO
“DON'T FRET ABOUT it, Pierre,” said Sole lamely, as the long-awaited helicopter came down at last upon the village. “What Kayapi did might have been the right thing, in Xemahoa terms — he had to find some answer to the presence of that monster, damn it! I know it made me throw up. But mightn't it still have been the right thing to do? Sometimes the right thing is the thing that makes us sick—”
“Kayapi—” the Frenchman spat out.
“—may be a Xemahoa genius.”
“—is a vile opportunist, a dirty little village Hitler.”
“Crap, Pierre. It's like you said earlier — he's a myth-maker, a cultural strongman. And I'll tell you something else. We have to act in a ruthless manner too — not for one Indian village but for the whole damn planet.”
“Words, words—”
“If what we need to do involves taking somebody's brain out of their head—”
The helicopter landed. It wasn't piloted by the Texan nor did it carry Chase or Billy — but pilot and passenger had the same clear-cut Mormon uniformity of the Soft War Corps that even the Negro Chester managed to fit, with his slick-carved souvenir features; though as he ran up now he resembled a distraught Queequeg with his eternal harpoon. Tom Zwingler emerged from Pierre's hut, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Zwingler?”
“Thank God for that! You're from Franklin? What happened?”
The passenger ignored the question.
“Why's the sky dark at night then, Zwingler?”
“Universe is expanding,” Tom Zwingler smiled as a world of comforting certainties, codewords and organization reasserted itself for him. But an uncertain look came over his face as he took in the brusque hostility in the other man's tone.
His smile wasn't returned.
“You're to evacuate with us right away. But you needn't bring any of these Indians with you. Project ‘Leapfrog’ has been altered.”
“But — why? Have we left it too late? Have the aliens gone?”
“Explanations while we fly, Zwingler. Right now we're in one hell of a hurry. The Brazilian Air Force are hunting for us.”
“They're — doing — WHAT?” exploded Chester. “WHO are doing WHAT?”
“The Brazilian Air Force. Part of it anyhow. The past few days have seen some surprises, I may tell you! There's civil war in Brazil. And chaos spreading across half-a-dozen countries. On account of that mess you and your demolition geniuses made of things.”
The man glared resentfully at the trio.
“Goddam awful mess—”
“We haven't heard anything about what happened. We've got no radio. We've just been waiting here.”
“You'll hear about the hornet's nest you stirred up soon enough. Radio! — it's frightening these days. How many of you are there? I thought there were just three.”
“You'll be coming, won't you Pierre?” asked Zwingler slyly.
Pierre's eyes gleamed with a sudden ray of hope.
“You said Revolution? And the Air Force are on the side of the Revolution?”
“That's about it,” the mormon salesman nodded.
“The Revolution!” Pierre whispered gleefully. He glanced around him furtively, as though he was thinking of rushing off into the jungle and joining in the fighting there and then.
Sole caught his look and smiled his best Iago smile.
“You can't do anything about it stuck here in the jungle, Pierre — you'd better come along with us.”
Sole was conscious, as he said it, that he sounded like a policeman advising the criminal to come quietly.
Pierre hung back, reluctant — and excited.
Even this small measure of delay worried the newcomers.
“Would you folks hurry up? The Frenchman can do what he pleases, but my instructions are to fly you three outa here as soon as can be. You're a helluva security risk, s'posing the Brazilians locate you. Weren't for this, you might have bin left here. Things are that touchy, folks.”
Sole had to laugh.
“We're a security risk? My God! Things have turned on their heads.”
Pierre was glancing about the village shiftily again — planning his escape.
“The Frenchman oughta be a security risk too,” grinned Chester. He raised the dart gun and casually fired a needle into Pierre's bare shoulder. “Sorry, Pee-air,” he laughed, mimicking Kayapi's pronunciation.
Pierre stumbled away with a dazed expression on his face. He hadn't gone more than five or six paces when he sprawled face down in the mud and lay limp.
Chester handed the gun to Tom Zwingler and walked over to Pierre's body leisurely; hauled him upright with one hand then bore him back to the helicopter in a fireman's lift.
Presumably it was all for the best, thought Sole.
Obviously Pierre was in no condition to stay in the jungle. His body had taken a terrible beating from flies and leeches and general strain over the past few days.
As Sole helped Chester hump Pierre's light frame on board the helicopter, he found himself shivering with a numb guilty thrill. Chester was happy too — he had fired his harpoon at last.
• • •
They flew over flat green jungle through thin rainmists and zones of rainbow sunlight. And that man in a hurry, whose name was Amory Hirsch, filled in the details of the missing days. The three men, so abruptly snatched from the timeless village of the Indians, heard with a shiver of fear of the changes in the outside world that had sprung so absurdly from their actions. They had searched for a needle in a haystack — and set the haystack on fire.
They heard of the disaster at Santarem. Of the tens of thousands drowned. The ocean-going ships washed deep into jungle, where they toppled over and the
ir boilers burst. Assassinations of American engineers before the assassins themselves were washed away like so much jetsam. Tidal waves of anger and hatred washing over the Brazilian cities. And how in all the confusion one fact stood out. One lunatic, unaccountable fact. That fearful use of nuclear weapons by the Americans to sabotage their own Amazon Project.
They heard how the pinprick explosions were detected by the Chinese transpacific satellite, the primary role of which was now clear to everyone, a spotter guideline for the ICBM system of the People's Republic. “Two lousy kilotons!” cried Amory Hirsch, distraught at the pettiness of it — but it had been the straw that broke the camel's back, in two senses: ecological — and political. As soon as the Chinese found out, be damned to the pretence of earth sciences research. Be damned to the Chinese game of musical satellites — of soaring to the top of the charts with their latest hitsong, Red Chairman of the Board. With what relish they leaked this news, no matter if it blew their own cover. Leaked it? No — avalanched the world with it. Meanwhile the Soviets were lying low — suspiciously low. Then fear and suspicion rode the globe at this first fearful use of nuclear weapons since Nagasaki. American property in Rio and Sao Paulo was burnt and looted. One part of the Brazilian army and air force defected. The other part was paralysed and reluctant to intervene. The regime's taut control abruptly snapped. Lunatic, anarchistic episodes followed — the napalming of the US Ambassador's residence in Brasilia was one. A wave of anarchy flushed through the country from town to town. From mind to mind. The guerrilla underground proclaimed its provisional government from the liberated city of Belo Horizonte. And this wild free violent mood lapped over, in far ripples from that flash flood on the Amazon, into neighbouring countries, infecting and contaminating.
“In nineteen hundred and seventy-five all the people rose from the countryside,” murmured Sole.
Amory Hirsch glared at him stonily.
“You might at least get the year right, whatever your sympathies.”
“Sorry, I was thinking about something else.”
