Hot Sky at Midnight

by Robert Silverberg

  Carpenter looked out the window, peering between the greenery. The overnight transformation was astonishing. A green light was playing on the hillside. He saw vines everywhere, creepers, gigantic ferns, enormous unfamiliar shrubs with colossal gleaming leaves and great swollen gaudy flowers. It was a berserk garden, magical, yes, but the magic that had been at work here was a dark and evil one. Unending rain was falling, and the plants stirred and murmured beneath it, expanding moment by moment, rising and stiffening, spreading their wings.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he said to Rhodes, and they stepped through the sealed windows and floated easily downward into the moist green world beyond.

  It was a luminous world, too. Eerie foxfire burned in it, a universal pallid flickering glow. The air was thick, wet, sickly-sweet. Everything seemed to be coated with fur. No, not fur, fungus of some kind, a dense damp growth of mold. From swollen organs burst periodic clouds of dark spores that sought and quickly found tiny crevices where they might take hold and sprout. There were no sharp edges visible anywhere, no bare surfaces: everything was overgrown. The trees, enormous and overbearing, had a lumpy, bearded look. They bulged with bewildering knobs and knurled excrescences.

  The moon glimmered faintly through the mists. Lashings of wild mutant bamboo crisscrossed its pockmarked face. Green blood dripped from it across the sky.

  Figures moved in the mist—trolls, strange boneless shapeless tentacular beings, alien and monstrous, that might have been natives of some other star; but as Carpenter came closer to them, he saw their faces, their eyes, and he could read the humanity that was in them. The staring stricken eyes, the gaping horrified mouths. And the scaly skins, the slithery limbs, the sagging pudding bodies, the alien forms surrounding the embedded nucleus of humanity still visible within. They too had undergone a magical transformation in the night.

  Nick Rhodes seemed to know them all. He greeted them the way one would greet neighbors, friends. Introduced Carpenter to them with a cheerful wave of a tentacle.

  “My friend Paul,” he said. “My oldest and dearest friend.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” they said, and passed onward through the mist, the green rain, the forest of shaggy trees, the clouds of furry spores that filled the humid air.

  Dangling festoons of ropy vines covered every building. Lunatic vegetable life ran riot under a cinnamon sky. Carpenter could make out, under the whips and cords and ropes of the sprawling vines, the indistinct shapes of the ruins of the former world, lichen-stained pyramids, shattered cathedrals, marble stelae inscribed with unreadable hieroglyphs, the fallen statues of gods and emperors. At an altar drenched in green blood a sacrifice was taking place, a crowd of tentacled beings clustered solemnly about one of their own kind who was bound to a stone slab by furry ropes. A furry green knife rose and fell. Carpenter heard distant singing—it was chanting, really—all on a single note, “Oh oh oh oh,” like a gentle, blurry far-off cry of inexpressible pain.

  “How long has it been this way?” he asked Rhodes. But Rhodes merely shrugged, as though his question had no meaning.

  Carpenter stared. The world he had known, he realized, was lost forever. The Earth of mankind was dying, or already dead, its long history over: now it was the turn of the funguses and the slime molds, the vines and the bamboos. The jungle would cover all of the works of man. And mankind itself would fade away into that jungle, a tribe of haunted, hunted creatures, hiding from the groping tendrils, seeking out pitiful niches of safety for themselves in the midst of this wild efflorescence of the new creation. But there would be no safety. Eventually the last humans would transform themselves into a vegetable species also, filling their mouths with the new spores and giving forth a generation of unimaginable new creatures.

  What of us? he wondered. Those of us who have not yet changed, who still walk about in our animal forms, our rigid bones and our old human skins? Is there no place for us? Must we be swallowed up in the general disaster?

  He looked past the bamboo-bound moon, toward the unreadable sparkle of the stars.

  There, Carpenter thought. There: a new rebirth in the stars, that’s our only hope. There. There. We shall walk up off the Earth into the sky, and we shall all be saved. Yes. While the mutilated Earth regenerates itself without us.

  “Look,” Rhodes said, pointing toward the bay.

  Something immense was rising from it, a solid massive column of green topped with eyes, an unthinkable unknowable being. Water streamed from its shoulders and fell in sizzling clouds back into the bay. Its eyes were huge, irascible, overwhelming. Rhodes was down on his knees, and he was gesturing to Carpenter to do the same.

  “What is it?” Carpenter asked. “That thing—what is it?”

  “Get down and acknowledge,” Rhodes whispered fiercely. “Down and acknowledge!”

  “No,” said Carpenter. “I don’t understand.”

  But all the world was bowing to the thing from the waters. A great music was swelling upward and filling the heavens. A new god had come, the overlord of this altered world. Carpenter, despite himself, felt moved by the grandeur and the strangeness of the scene. His knees weakened. He began to lower himself to the moist spongy ground.

  “Acknowledge,” Rhodes said again. And Carpenter closed his eyes, he bowed his head, he moistened the damp earth with his tears. In wonder and incomprehension he acknowledged the world’s new master; and the vision passed, and he awoke, sober and aghast, with the first gray light of morning creeping into the room. His head was pounding. There were empty bottles everywhere. Nick Rhodes lay sprawled on the floor near the couch. Carpenter pressed his hands to his throbbing temples, and rubbed and rubbed in the vain hope of pressing the pain out of them, and listened to the dull tolling sound of his own mind telling himself in bleak and utter conviction that there was no hope for the poor weary damaged old world, none, no hope whatever. All was lost. All, all, all. Lost, lost, lost. All. Lost.

  All. Lost. Lost.

  Lost.

  An enzyme bath, a leisurely day of lounging about the apartment, an hour or two spent in Rhodes’ spindizzy chamber getting all the kinks steamed out of his nervous system for the time being, and Carpenter felt almost functional again. Rhodes seemed to show no ill effects at all from his night of bingeing. About five in the evening Isabella Martine appeared, once again very amiable and solicitous and nonirritating, and after some sherry and a little light conversation the three of them went over to Jolanda Bermudez’s place north of the campus.

  Carpenter was amused and pleased by the overwrought splendor of the little house—its baroque, antiquated external appearance, the multitude of small rooms within, all jammed with myriad preposterous artifacts, the drifts of incense in the air, the horde of cats, every one of them of some strange and elegant breed. It was just the sort of house, faintly ridiculous but full of eccentric vitality, that he would have expected Jolanda to have, only more so.

  And Farkas, the eyeless Kyocera man that Jolanda had somehow collected along the way, up there in the L-5s—he seemed to fit right in with the rest of her things. A curio, an artifact, a one-of-a-kind.

  You could not fail to be impressed by him, Carpenter thought. Enormously tall: a powerful, commanding figure, radiating self-assurance and strength, practically filling the little room where Jolanda was serving them canapes. Fine clothes, pearl-gray suit and orange foulard, boots polished to a mirror finish: high-level dandyism. Massive cheekbones, jutting chin. And above all that high smooth arching forehead, that mesmerizing expanse of blank skin where everybody else had eyebrows and eyes: a freakish monstrous thing, something out of a dream, something you never expected to see in real life. Not simply blind, but completely eyeless; and yet nothing in Farkas’s movements gave any indication that his vision was at all impaired.

  Carpenter cautiously sipped a drink, nibbled a canape. Watched the changing scene.

  Curious social patterns formed, held a moment or two, broke. People shifted, floated about the room.

>   Farkas and Enron—a huge lordly man and a small, tense, tightly coiled one—conferring in low voices in a far corner like a couple of ill-matched business partners discussing a contract that they expected soon to receive. Perhaps that was what they were.

  Then Farkas went to Jolanda. They stood close to each other with Enron looking on sourly from a distance, Farkas plainly fascinated by Jolanda, every aspect of his stance telegraphing his intense interest in her. His shoulders were tipped forward and his great strange domed head was inclined toward her; he seemed to be using some extrasensory X-ray vision to see right through Jolanda’s flamboyant scarlet gown to the fleshy nakedness beneath.

  And she was enjoying it, flushing like a schoolgirl, wriggling about, brimming with pleasure, practically thrusting herself at him. It definitely looked as if they were setting up some kind of encounter right under Enron’s nose. Certainly Enron seemed to think so. His scowl was extremely expressive. There was Isabelle intervening, now, drawing Enron off, distracting him. Loyalty to her friend, Carpenter figured. Getting the Israeli out of the way so Jolanda could cast her net, not that Farkas appeared to require a lot of catching.

  And now Enron was talking to Nick Rhodes: interviewing him again, maybe? Jolanda going over to them. An interchange of grins between Jolanda and Rhodes, oddly intimate, though only for an instant. Carpenter was reminded of things that Rhodes had said about Jolanda to him on the night of the Sausalito dinner, and realized now that Jolanda must have slept with every man in this room, and was proud of it, too.

  The patterns kept shifting. At last Carpenter found himself talking with Farkas. It was Jolanda who brought him over, saying as she did, “This is our friend Paul Carpenter. You remember: I told you about him.” She flashed them both warm smiles and torrid looks and went dancing away toward Enron.

  “You are a Samurai man?” the eyeless man asked Carpenter right away. “Captain of an iceberg trawler, I understand.”

  “Was,” Carpenter said bluntly, amazed at Farkas’s reckless conversational style. He looked up at Farkas, several inches taller, staring at the smooth, faintly shadowy place where eyes should have been. “There was a little scandal over an incident at sea. I was terminated.”

  “Yes. So I was informed. It was my impression that Samurai very rarely terminates its salarymen.”

  “Kyocera people were involved, on the short end of things. There was an inquiry. It looked very bad for the Company’s public image. So I was found to be expendable and sincere apologies were made to all concerned.”

  “I see,” Farkas said. The phrase sounded very weird, coming from him. “And now? You have plans?”

  “I thought I might rob a bank. Or kidnap the daughter of some Level One and hold her for ransom.”

  Farkas smiled gravely, as if those might be plausible alternatives.

  “What about making a new start for yourself on one of the space habitats?” he asked.

  “A definite possibility, yes,” Carpenter said. The idea hadn’t occurred to him. But yes, yes, space was where everybody went who had reached a dead end on Earth. The habitats! Why not? But of course he would have to find some way of getting there. He revolved the new notion dizzily in his mind.

  Then he became aware that Farkas was still speaking.

  “We have all just come back from Valparaiso Nuevo. The sanctuary world, you know. You might find it of some interest. Are you familiar with it?”

  “I’ve heard about it. The last of the glorious banana republics, isn’t it? Some loopy old South American generalissimo runs it as his private empire, and makes a fortune by selling protection to fugitives, from the law.” Carpenter shook his head. “But I’m not a fugitive. I wasn’t found guilty of anything except bad management. I wasn’t sentenced to anything except losing my job. And I’ve got no money anyway for buying my way in with.”

  “Oh, no,” Farkas said. “You misunderstand. I don’t mean that you should go there to take sanctuary. I mean you might find opportunity for yourself there.”

  “Opportunity? Of what sort?”

  “Of many sorts.” Farkas lowered the tone of his voice, making it insinuating, almost seductive. “You see, the Generalissimo Don Eduardo Callaghan is soon to be deposed by an insurrection.”

  Carpenter recoiled in surprise.

  “He is?” This was starting to sound like lunacy.

  “Indeed so,” said Farkas pleasantly. “What I am telling you is all quite true. Some very capable plotters are planning to end his long reign. I am part of the group. Jolanda also, and our friend Mr. Enron. And there are others. You might wish to join us.”

  “What are you saying?” Carpenter asked, growing more mystified by the moment.

  “It sounds quite straightforward to me. We have a few details to clarify with some people in Los Angeles, and then we will go to Valparaiso Nuevo and take possession of the place. There will be great profit in selling off the fugitives to the agencies that seek their return. You would share in the benefits, which would provide you with the funds to begin a new life for yourself in space. Since obviously there is no future for you now on Earth.”

  Lunacy, yes. Or perhaps some sort of sadism. This wasn’t the way real conspirators talked, was it, taking complete strangers into their confidence on the spur of the moment?

  No, no, Farkas was spinning out these fantasies for the sake of having a little cruel fun. Or else he was crazy. Carpenter, struggling to make sense of this unexpected stream of seeming madness that was flowing so calmly from the eyeless man, began to feel anger.

  “You’re playing with me, aren’t you? This is some sick way you have of amusing yourself.”

  “Not at all. I’m being entirely serious. There is a plot. You are invited to join.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why ask me in? Of all people.”

  Farkas said calmly, “Call it a gratuitous act. A moment of spontaneous inspiration. Jolanda has told me that you are an intelligent man down on your luck. Desperate, even. Willing to take extreme chances, I would guess. And you have many skills and capabilities. All in all it seems to me as though you could be very useful to us.” His voice had become a sort of a purr. “And it would give me great pleasure to be of assistance to a friend of Jolanda’s.”

  “This is incredible,” Carpenter said. “You don’t know me at all. And I don’t understand why you’re trusting me with any of this, if there’s anything to it. I could sell you all out. I could go straight to the police.”

  “But why would you do that?”

  “For money. Why else?”

  “Ah,” Farkas said, “but much greater sums would be involved in the takeover of Valparaiso Nuevo than the police would ever give you. No, no, my friend, the only reason for you to betray us would be out of the abstract love of justice. Perhaps that is an emotion that you actually feel, even now, after your recent experiences. But I am highly skeptical of that. —Tell me: does what I have said interest you in any way?”

  “I still think it’s just a bad joke.”

  “Ask Mr. Enron, then. Ask Jolanda Bermudez. She says that you and she are friends. Is this not so? Then you trust her, presumably. Ask her whether I am being serious. Go, please, Mr. Carpenter: ask her. Now.”

  It was all unreal. A grotesque offer out of the blue, coming from someone who scarcely seemed human. But terribly tempting, if there was anything to it.

  Carpenter looked across the room at Jolanda. She had said last night that Farkas might be able to turn up something for him with Kyocera, a suggestion that Carpenter had not placed the least credence in. Was this what she had meant? This?

  No, it all had to be some joke, he told himself. A stupid little joke at his expense. Jolanda must be in on it; he would go to her and ask her to confirm what Farkas had just said, and she would, and it would go on and on, new and ever more grandiose nonsense being trotted forth all evening, until suddenly someone could no longer hide a grin, and then the laughter would begin, and—
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  No.

  “Sorry,” Carpenter said. “I’m not in the mood to be made fun of right now.”

  “As you wish. Forget the offer, please. I regret making it. Perhaps it was a mistake to have disclosed so much to you.”

  There was a sudden note of suppressed menace in Farkas’s voice that Carpenter found disagreeable. But it told him also that this might not be any joke. Carpenter had already started to turn away, but then he paused and looked up into the Kyocera man’s extraordinary face once again.

  “You’re really serious about this thing?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Go on, then. Tell me more.”

  “Come with us to Los Angeles, if you want to learn more. But there will be no turning back for you, once you do. You will be one of us; and you will not have the option of withdrawing from the group.”

  “You are serious.”

  “So you believe me, now?”

  “If this is any kind of joke, Farkas, I’ll kill you. You better believe me. I mean what I’m saying.” Carpenter wondered if he actually did.

  “There is no joke.” Farkas put out his hand. After a moment, Carpenter took it.

  “Dinner is served!” Jolanda called, from another room.

  “We will talk further, afterward,” Farkas said.

  As they were walking toward the dining room, Nick Rhodes came up alongside Carpenter and said, “What was that all about?”

  “A strange business. I think he was making me a job offer.”

  “With Kyocera?”

  “Free-lance work,” Carpenter said. “I’m not sure. It’s all very fucking mysterious.”

  “You want to tell me about it?” Rhodes asked.

  “Later,” said Carpenter. They went inside.