Doorways in the Sand Page 19

  “I suppose that the next time they will come bearing gifts.”

  “This is quite likely. But again, your people are now advised. Others will come, too. It should not be so difficult to balance them off against one another.”

  “So it still comes back to the smoke-filled room . . .”

  “Or methane. Or many other things,” he said. “I don’t quite follow . . .”

  “Politics. It’s a gas, too.”

  “Oh, yes. One of life’s little essentials.”

  “Ragma, I would like to ask you a personal question.”

  “You may. If it is too embarrassing I will simply not answer it.”

  “Then tell me, if you would, how you would characterize your own culture, race, people—whatever term your social scientists apply to your group, you know what I mean—in terms of the greater galactic civilization.”

  “Oh, we would call ourselves quite practical, efficient, flat-headed—”

  “Level-headed,” I said.

  “Just so. And at the same time idealistic, inventive, full of cultural diversity and—”

  I coughed.

  “—and possessed of great potential,” he said, “and the dreams and vigor of youth.”

  “Thank you.”

  We turned and began walking, then, along the beach just out of reach of the tide.

  “Have you been thinking about the proposal?” he finally asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Reach a decision yet?”

  “No,” I said. “I am going to go away for a while to think about it.”

  “Have you any idea as to how long it will take you?”

  “No.”

  “Just so. Just so. You will of course notify us immediately, whichever you decide . . .”

  “Of course.”

  We passed a faded NO SWIMMING sign, and I paused to reflect on the improvement over the GNIMMIWS ON one I would have seen earlier. My scar collection was back in place too, and cigarettes tasted normal once more. I would miss the backward versions of the soggy French fries, greasy hamburgs, day-old salads and Student Union coffee, though, I decided. Most of all, however, the memory of the stereoisobooze, mystic nectar, Spiegelschnapps would haunt me, like a breeze from the stills of Faerie . . .

  “I guess we had better be getting back into town,” Ragma said. “Merimee’s party will be starting soon.”

  “True,” I said. “But tell me something. I was just thinking about inversions that proceed as far as the molecular level but stop short of the atomic, the subatomic . . .”

  “And you want to know why the inverter does not deliver neat little piles of antimatter for you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  He shrugged.

  “It can be done, but you lose a lot of machines that way, among other things. And this one is an antique. We want to hang onto it. It is the second N-axial inversion until ever built.”

  “What happened to the first one?”

  He chuckled.

  “It did not possess a particle-exceptor program.”

  “How does that work?”

  He shook his head.

  “There are some things that man is not meant to know,” he said.

  “That’s a hell of a thing to say at this stage of the game.”

  “Actually, I don’t understand it myself.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let’s go drink Merimee’s booze and smoke his cigarettes,” he said. “I want to talk to your uncle some more, too. He has offered me a job, you know.”

  “He has? Doing what?”

  “He has some interesting ideas concerning galactic trade. He says that he wants to set up a modest export-import business. You see, I am about ready to retire from the force, and he wants someone with my sort of experience to advise him. We might work something out.”

  “He is my favorite uncle,” I said, “and I owe him a lot. But I am also sufficiently indebted to you that I feel obligated to point out that his reputation is somewhat less than savory.”

  Ragma shrugged.

  “The galaxy is a big place,” he said. “There are laws and occasions for all sorts and situations. These are some of the things he wants me to advise him about.”

  I nodded slowly, apocalyptic pieces of family folklore having but recently fallen into place in light of Merimee’s revelations and some of Uncle Albert’s own reminiscences during our small family reunion the previous evening.

  “Doctor Merimee, by the way, will be a partner in the enterprise,” Ragma added.

  I continued to nod.

  “Whatever happens,” I said, “I am certain that you will find it a stimulating and enlightening experience.”

  We continued to the car, into it, cityward, away. Behind me the beach was suddenly full of doorways, and I thought of ladies, tigers, shoes, ships, sealing wax and other lurkers on the threshold. Soon, soon, soon . . .

  Variations on a Theme by the Third Gargoyle from the End: Stars and the Dream of Time—

  It was in a small town in the shadow of the Alps that I finally caught up with him, brooding atop the local house of worship, regarding the huge clock high up on the city hall across the way.

  “Good evening, Professor Dobson.”

  “Eh? Fred? Goodness! Mind the next stone over—the mortar is a bit crumbly . . . There. Very good. I hardly expected to see you tonight. Glad you happened by, though. I was going to send you a postcard in the morning, telling you about this place. Not just the climbing but the perspective. Keep your eye on the big clock, will you?”

  “All right,” I said, settling back onto a perch and bracing one foot against an ornamental projection.

  “I’ve brought you something,” I said, passing him the package.

  “Why, thank you. Most unexpected. A surprise . . . It gurgles, Fred.”

  “So it does.”

  He peeled away the paper.

  “Indeed! I can’t make out the label, so I had better sample it.”

  I watched the big clock on the tower.

  After a moment, “Fred!” he said. “I’ve never tasted the like! What is it?”

  “The stereoisomer of a common bourbon,” I said. “I was permitted to run a few bottles through the Rhennius machine recently, as the UN Special Committee on Alien Artifacts is being particularly nice to me these days. So, in this sense, you have just sampled a very rare thing.”

  “I see. Yes . . . What is the occasion?”

  “The stars have run their fiery courses to their proper places, positioned with elegant cunning, possessed of noble portent.”

  He nodded.

  “Beautifully stated,” he said. “But what do you mean?”

  “To begin with a departure, I have graduated.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. I was beginning to believe they would never get you.”

  “So was I. But they did. I am now working for the State Department or the United Nations, depending on how one looks at these matters.”

  “What sort of position is it?”

  “That is what I am thinking about at the moment. You see, I have a choice.”

  He took another sip and passed me the bottle.

  “Always an awesome moment,” he reflected. “Here.”

  I nodded. I took a sip.

  “Which is why I wanted to talk with you before I made it.”

  “Always an awesome responsibility,” he said, recovering the bottle. “Why me?”

  “Some time ago, when I was being tormented in the desert,” I said, “I thought about the many advisers I have had. It only recently occurred to me what made some of them better than others. The best ones, I see now, were those who did not try to force me to go the prescribed routes. They did not simply sign my card either, though. They always talked to me for a time. Not the usual sort of thing. They never counseled me in the direct manner ritual prescribes for such occasions. I don’t even remember much of what was said. Things they had learned the hard way usually, things they considered import
ant, I guess. Generally non-academic things. Those were the ones who taught me something, and perhaps they did direct me in an indirect way. Not to do what they wanted but to see something they had really seen. A piece of their slant on life, take it for whatever it is worth. Anyhow, while you are one of the few who escaped the formal assignment, over the years I have come to consider you my only real adviser.”

  “It was never intentional . . .” he said.

  “Exactly. That was the best way to do it in my case. The only way, probably. You have shown me things that have helped me. Often. Now I am thinking particularly of our recent conversation, back on campus, right before you retired.”

  “I remember it well.”

  I lit a cigarette.

  “The entire situation is rather difficult to explain,” I said. “I will try to simplify it: The star-stone, that alien artifact we have on loan, is sentient. It was created by a now extinct race somewhat similar to our own. It was located among the ruins of their civilization ages after its passing, and no one recognized it for what it was. This is not especially strange, because there was nothing to distinguish it as the Speicus referred to in some of the writings which survived and were subsequently translated. It was assumed that the references indicated some sort of investigating committee or some process or program employed in the gathering and evaluation of information in the area of the social sciences. But it was the star-stone they were talking about. To function properly, it requires a host built along our lines. It exists then as a symbiote within that creature, obtaining data by means of that being’s nervous system as it goes about its business. It operates on this material as something of a sociological computer. In return for this, it keeps its host in good repair indefinitely. On request, it provides analyses of anything it has encountered directly or peripherally, along with reliability figures, unbiased because it is uniquely alien to all life forms, yet creature-oriented because of the nature of the input mechanism. It prefers a mobile host with a fact-filled head.”

  “Fascinating. How did you learn all this?”

  “By accident, I partially activated it. It got inside me then and persuaded me to bring it to full function. Which I did. In the process, however, I rendered myself incapable of all but the most rudimentary communication with it. Later, it was removed and I was returned to normal. It is currently functioning, though, and telepathic analysts are capable of conversing with it. Now, both the galactic Council and the United Nations would like to see it employed once more. What has been proposed is that it continue as a special item in the kula chain setup, providing each world it visits with a full report on itself. Moving on, over the years, across the generations, this base would be broadened. Eventually, it would be able to supply the Council with reports encompassing whole sectors of the civilized galaxy. It is a living data processor, mildly telepathic—for it has been absorbing bits and pieces over the centuries it has been circulating, so that it knew to advise me on the Galactic Code and knew of the function of a certain machine. It represents a unique combination of objectivity and empathy, and because of this its reports should be of more than a little value.”

  “I begin to see the situation,” he said.

  “Yes. Speicus seems to have taken a liking to me, wants me to do the honors.”

  “An enormous opportunity.”

  “True. If I decline, though, I will still get to study many of these things as an alien culture specialist right here on earth.”

  “Why should you settle for that when you can have the other?”

  “I got to thinking about the petty pace, then the acceleration. A while ago we were there, now we are here. Everything in between is a bit unreal—the time between the tops of our towers. Up here, looking down, looking back, I notice for the first time that my towertops are coming closer and closer together. There is a noticeable increase in the tempo of time and the times. Everything down there, between, grows more and more frantic, absurd. You told me that when I finally thought of it I should remember the brandy.”

  “Yes, I did. Here.”

  I disposed of my cigarette. I remembered the brandy, drank to it.

  “If the distance were not so great you could spit into the face of Time,” he observed as I passed it back. “Yes, I did say all that, and it was true at the time. For me.”

  “And where is it taking us?” I said. “To the top of a particularly tricky spire which we already know to have been long occupied by others. They consider us a developing world, you know—primitive, barbaric. They are most likely right, too. Let’s face it. We’ve been beaten to the top. If I take the job, I will be more of a display item than Speicus.”

  “Speaking statistically,” he said, “it was unlikely that we would be at the top of the heap, just as it is also unlikely that we are at the bottom. I believed everything that I said when I said it and some of it still. But you must remember the circumstances. I was speaking from the end of a career, not the beginning, and I spoke at a moment when one is preoccupied with such matters. There are other thoughts I have entertained since then. Many of them. Such as Professor Kuhn’s notions on the structure of scientific revolutions—that a big new idea comes along and shatters traditional patterns of thought, that everything is then put together again from the ground up. Petty pace, bit by bit. After a time, things begin looking tidy once more, except for a few odd scraps and pieces. Then someone throws another brick through the window. It has always been this way for us, and in recent years the bricks have been coming closer and closer together. Not quite as much time for the cleaning up. Then we met the aliens and a whole truckload of bricks arrived. Naturally the intellect is staggered. Whatever we are, though, we are different from anyone else out there. We have to be. No two people or peoples are alike. If for no other reason than this, I know we have something to contribute. It remains to be found, but it must be found. We must survive the current brick-storm, for it is obvious now that others have done it. If we cannot, then we do not deserve to survive and take our place among them. It was not wrong of me to wish to be the first and the best, only perhaps wrong to wish to be alone. The trouble with you people in anthropology, for all your talk of cultural relativism, is that the very act of evaluation automatically makes you feel superior to whatever you are evaluating, and you evaluate everything. We are now about to be evaluees for a time, anthropologists included. I suspect that has hit you harder than you may be willing to admit, in your favorite area of thought. I would then say, bear up and learn something from it. Humility, if nothing else. We are on the threshold of a renaissance if I read the signs right. But one day the brick-fall will probably let up and Time will shuffle its feet and the sweeping of the floors will commence again. There will be opportunity to feel alone in ourselves once more. When that day comes for you, what sort of company will you have?”

  He paused. Then: “You have come for my advice,” he said, “and I have probably offered more than was wanted. I owe it to the good company and the perfect beverage. So I drink to you now and to the time that has transfigured me. Keep climbing. That is all. Keep climbing, and then go a little higher.”

  I accepted a sip. I stared out at the building across the way. I lit another cigarette.

  “Why are we watching the clock?” I asked.

  “For the chimes at midnight. Any moment now, I should think.”

  “It seems an awfully obvious moral, even if it is well timed.”

  He chuckled.

  “I didn’t script the thing,” he said, “and I’ve used up all my morals, Fred. I just want to enjoy the spectacle. Things can be interesting in themselves.”

  “True. Sorry. Also, thank you.”

  “Here they come!” he said.

  A little door on either side of the clock popped open. From the one a burnished knight emerged. From the other, a dusky fool. The one bore a sword, the other a staff. They advanced, the knight straight and stately, the fool with a skip or a limp—I was not certain which. They moved toward us, bobbing
, frozen in frown and grin. They reached the ends of their tracks, pivoted ninety degrees and proceeded once more to a meeting before a bell that occupied a central position on that lateral way. Arriving before it, the knight raised his weapon and delivered the first blow. The sound was full and deep. Moments later, the fool swung his staff for the second. The tone was slightly sharper, the volume about the same.

  Knight, fool, knight, fool . . . The strokes came quite smartly at that range, so I felt them as well as hearing their tones. Fool, knight, fool, knight . . . They cut the air, they killed the day. The fool delivered the final blow.

  For an instant, then, they seemed to regard each other. Then, as by agreement, they turned away, moved back to their corners, pivoted, continued to their doorways and entered. The doors closed behind them and even the echoes were dead by then.

  “People who don’t climb cathedrals miss some good shows,” I said.

  “Keep your damn morals for another day,” he said. Then: “To the lady with the smile!”

  “To the rocks of empire!” I replied moments later.

  Bits & Pieces Lost in Hilbert Space, Emerging to Describe Slow Symphonies & the Architecture of Persistent Passion—

  He regards the night as he had never seen it before, from atop the high Tower of Cheslerei in a place called Ardel beside the sea with the cryptic name. Somewhere, Paul Byler is chipping pieces off a world and doing remarkable things with them. Ira Enterprises, under the directorship of Albert Cassidy, is about to open offices on fourteen planets. A book called The Retching of the Spirit, by a shadowy, Traven-like author who lists as collaborators a girl, a dwarf and a donkey, has just achieved best-seller status. La Gioconda continues to receive critical acclaim with tacit good humor and traditional poise. Dennis Wexroth is on crutches as the result of a broken leg sustained while attempting to scale the Student Union.