Below them. Time fled backward through the cold.
Christmas was pushed out into the hallway, and over the threshold of the front door to their world-Alvin"s, Leota"s, and Unger"s world-to stand shivering on the doorsill of its own Eve, in Bermuda.
Inside the Dart, pa.s.sing backward through Time, Moore recalled that New Year"s Eve Party many years ago, recalled his desires of that day and reflected that they sat beside him now; recalled the Parties since then and reflected that he would miss all that were yet to come; recalled his work in the time before Time-a few months ago-and reflected that he could no longer do it properly-and that Time was indeed out of joint and 83 that he could not set it aright; he recalled his old apart- ment, never revisited, all his old friends, including Diane Demetrios, now dead or senile, and reflected that, be- yond the Set which he was leaving, he knew no one, save possibly the girl at his side. Only Wayne Unger was ageless, for he was an employee of the eternal.
Given a month or two Unger could open up a bar, form his own circle of outcasts and toy with a private renais- sance, if he should ever decide to leave.
Moore suddenly felt very stale and tired, and he whispered to their ghostly servant for a Martini and reached across his dozing wife to fetch it from the cubi- cle. He sat there sipping it, wondering about the world below.
He should have kept with life, he decided. He knew nothing of contemporary politics, or law, or art; his stan- dards were those grated on by the Set, and concerned primarily with color, movement, gaiety, and clever speech; he was reduced again to childhood when it came to science. He knew he was wealthy, but the Set had been managing all his finances. All he had was an all- purpose card, good anywhere in the world for any sort of purchase, commodity or service-wise. Periodically, he had examined his file and seen balance sheets which told him he need never worry about being short of money.
But he did not feel confident or competent when it came to meeting the people who resided in the world outside.
Perhaps he would appear stodgy, old-fashioned, and "quaint" as he had felt tonight, without the glamor of the Set to mask his humanity.
Unger snored, Leota breathed deeply, and the world turned. When they reached Bermuda they returned to the Earth.
They stood beside the Dart, just outside the flight terminal.
"Care to take a walk?" asked Moore.
"I am tired, my love," said Leota, staring in the direc- tion of the Hall of Sleep. She looked back.
He shook his head. "I"m not quite ready."
112.
She turned to him. He kissed her.
"I"ll see you then in April, darling. Good night."
"April is the crudest month," observed Unger. "Come, engineer, I"ll walk with you as far as the shuttle stands."
They began walking. They moved across the roadway in the direction opposite the terminal, and they entered upon the broad, canopied walk that led to the ro-car garage.
It was a crystalline night, with stars like tinsel and a satellite beacon blazing like a gold piece deep within the pool of the sky. As they walked, their breath fumed 84 into white wreathes that vanished before they were fully formed. Moore tried in vain to light his pipe. Finally, he stopped and hunched his shoulders against the wind until he got it going.
"A good night for walking," said Unger.
Moore grunted. A gust of wind lashed a fiery rain of loose tobacco upon his cheek. He smoked on, hands in the pockets of his jacket, collar raised. The poet clapped him on the shoulder.
"Come with me into the town," he suggested. "It"s only over the hill. We can walk it."
"No," said Moore, through his teeth.
They strode on, and as they neared the garage Unger grew uneasy.
"I"d rather someone were with me tonight," he said abruptly. "I feel strange, as though I"d drunk the draught of the centuries and suddenly am wise in a time when wisdom is unnecessary. I-I"m afraid."
Moore hesitated.
"No," he finally repeated, "it"s time to say good-bye.
You"re traveling on and we"re getting off. Have fun."
Neither offered to shake hands, and Moore watched him move into the shuttle stop.
Continuing behind the building, Moore cut diagonally 113.
across the wide lawns and into the gardens. He strolled aimlessly for a few minutes, then found the path that led down to the ruins.
The going was slow and he wound his way through the cold wilderness. After a period of near-panic when he felt surrounded by trees and he had to backtrace, he emerged into the starlit clearing where menaces of shrubbery dappled the broken buildings with patterns of darkness, moving restlessly as the winds shifted.
The gra.s.s rustled about his ankles as he seated himself on a fallen pillar and got his pipe going once more.
He sat thinking himself into marble as his toes grew numb, and he felt very much a part of the place; an artificial scene, a ruin transplanted out of history onto unfamiliar grounds. He did not want to move. He just wanted to freeze into the landscape and become his own monument. He sat there making pacts with imagi- nary devils: he wanted to go back, to return with Leota to his Frisco town, to work again. Like Unger, he sud- denly felt wise in time when wisdom was unnecessary.
Knowledge was what he needed. Fear was what he had.
Pushed on by the wind, he picked his way across the 85 plain. Within the circle of his fountain. Pan was either dead or sleeping. Perhaps it is the cold sleep of the G.o.ds, decided Moore, and Pan will one day awaken and blow upon his festival pipes and only the wind among high towers will answer, and the shuffling tread of an a.s.sess- ment robot be quickened to scan him-because the Party people will have forgotten the festival melodies, and the waxen ones will have isolated out the wisdom of the blood on their colored slides and inoculated mankind against it-and, programmed against emotions, a fri- volity machine will perpetually generate the sensations of gaiety into the fever-dreams of the delirious, so that they will not recognize his tunes-and there shall be none among the children of Phoebus to even repeat the 114.
Attic cry of his first pa.s.sing, heard those many Christ- mases ago beyond the waters of the Mediterranean.
Moore wished that he had stayed a little longer with Unger, because he now felt that he had gained a glimpse of the man"s perspective. It had taken the fear of a new world to generate these feelings, but he was beginning to understand the poet. Why did the man stay on in the Set, though? he wondered. Did he take a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic pleasure in seeing his ice-prophecies fulfilled, as he moved further and further away from his own times? Maybe that was it.
Moore stirred himself into one last pilgrimage. He walked along their old path down to the breakwall. The stones were cold beneath his fingers, so he used the stile to cross over to the beach.
He stood on a rim of rust at the star-reflecting bucket- bottom of the world. He stared out at the black humps of the rocks where they had held their sunny colloquy days/months ago. It was his machines he had spoken of then, before they had spoken of themselves. He had be- lieved, still believed, in their inevitable fusion with the spirit of his kind, into greater and finer vessels for life.
Now he feared, like Unger, that by the time this oc- curred something else might have been lost, and that the fine new vessels would only be partly filled, lacking some essential ingredient. He hoped Unger was wrong; he felt that the ups and downs of Time might at some future equinox restore all those drowsing verities of the soul"s undersides that he was now feeling-and that there would be ears to hear the piped melody, and feet that would move with its sound. He tried to believe this. He hoped it would be true.
A star fell, and Moore looked at his watch. It was late. He scuffed his way back to the wall and crossed over it again.
115.
Inside the pre-sleep clinic he met Jameson, who was alieady yawning from his prep-injection. Jameson was 86 a tall, thin man with the hair of a cherub and the eyes of its opposite number.
"Moore," he grinned, watching him hang his jacket on the wall and roll up his sleeve, "you going to spend your honeymoon on ice?"
The hypogun sighed in the medic"s husky hand and the prep-in]ection entered Moore"s arm.
"That"s right," he replied, leveling his gaze at the not completely sober Jameson. "Why?"
"It just doesn"t seem the thing to do," Jameson ex- plained, still grinning. "If I were mairied to Leota you wouldn"t catch me going on ice. Unless--"
Moore took one step toward him, the sound in his throat like a snarl. Jameson drew back, his dark eyes widening.
"I was joking!" he said. "I didn"t . . ."
There was a pain in Moore"s injected arm as the big medic seized it and jerked him to a halt.
"Yeah," said Moore, "good night. Sleep tight, wake sober."
As he turned toward the door the medic released his arm. Moore rolled down his sleeve and donned his jacket as he left.
"You"re off your rocker," Jameson called after him.
Moore had about half an hour before he had to hit his bunker. He did not feel like heading for it at the moment.
He had planned on waiting in the clinic until the injec- tion began to work, but Jameson"s presence changed that.
He walked through the wide corridors of the Hall of Sleep, rode a lift up to the bunkers, then strode down the hallway until he came to his door. He hesitated, then pa.s.sed on. He would sleep there for the next three 116.
and a half months; he did not feel like giving it half of the next hour also.
He refilled his pipe. He would smoke through a sentinel watch beside the ice G.o.ddess, his wife. He looked about for wandering medics. One is supposed to refrain from smoking after the prep-injection, but it had never both- ered him yet, or anyone else he knew of.
An intermittent thumping sound reached his ears as he moved on up the hallway. It stopped as he rounded a corner, then began again, louder. It was coming from up ahead.
After a moment there was another silence.
87 He paused outside Leota"s door. Grinning around his pipe, he found a pen and drew a line through the last name on her plate. He printed "Moore" in above it. As he was forming the final letter the pounding began again.
It was coming from inside her room.
He opened the door, took a step, then stopped.
The man had his back to him. His right arm was raised.
A mallet was clenched in his fist.
His panted mutterings, like an incantation, reached Moore"s ears: ""Strew on her roses, roses, and never spray a yew ... In quiet she reposes-""
Moore was across the chamber He seized the mallet and managed to twist it away. Then he felt something break inside his hand as his fist connected with a jaw.
The man collided with the opposite wall, then pitched (forward onto the floor.
"Leota!" said Moore. "Leota . . ."
Cast of white Parian she lay, deep within the coils of the bunker. The canopy had been raised high overhead.
Her flesh was already firm as stone-because there was no blood on her breast where the stake had been driven in. Only cracks and fissures, as in stone.
117.
"No," said Moore.
The stake was a very hard synthowood-like cocobolo, or quebracho, or perhaps lignum vitae-still to be un- splintered. . . .
"No," said Moore.
Her face had the relaxed expression of a dreamer, her hair was the color of aluminum. His ring was on her finger. . . .
There was a murmuring in the comer of the room.
"Unger," he said flatly, "why-did-you-do it?"
The man sucked air around his words. His eyes were focused on something nameless.
". . . Vampire," he muttered, "luring men aboard her Flying Dutchman to drain them across the years. . . .
She is the future-a G.o.ddess on the outside and a thirsting vacuum within," he stated without emotion. ""Strew on her roses, roses . . . Her mirth the world required-She bathed it in smiles of glee . . ." She was going to leave me way up here in the middle of the air. I can"t get off the merry-go-round and I can"t have the bra.s.s ring. But no one else will lose as I have lost, not now. ". . . Her 88 life was turning, turning, in mazes of heat and sound-"
I thought she would come back to me, after she"d tired of you."
He raised his hand to cover his eyes as Moore ad- vanced upon him.
"To the technician, the future-"
Moore hit him with the hammer, once twice. After the third blow he lost count because his mind could not conceive of any number greater than three.
Then he was walking, running, the mallet still clutched in his hand-past doors like blind eyes, up corridors, down seldom-used stairwells.
As he lurched away from the Hall of Sleep he heard someone calling after him through the night. He kept running.
us After a long while he began to walk again. His hand was aching and his breath burned within his lungs. He climbed a hill, paused at its top, then descended the other side.
Party Town, an expensive resort-owned and spon- sored, though seldom patronized by the Set-was de- serted, except for the Christmas lights in the windows, and the tinsel, and the boughs of holly. From some dim adytum the recorded carols of a private celebration could be heard, and some laughter. These things made Moore feel even more alone as he walked up one street and down another, his body seeming ever more a thing apart from him as the prep-injection took its inevitable effect. His feet were leaden. His eyes kept closing and be kept forcing them back open.
There were no servics going on when he entered the church. It was warmer inside. He was alone there, too.
The interior of the church was dim, and he was at- tracted to an array of lights about the display at the foot of a statute. It was a manger scene. He leaned back against a pew and stared at the mother and the child, at the angels and the inquisitive cattle, at the father. Then he made a sound he had no words for and threw the mallet into the little stable and turned away. Clawing at the wall, he staggered off a dozen steps and collapsed, cursing and weeping, until he slept.
They found him at the foot of the cross.
Justice had become a thing of streamlined swiftness since the days of Moore"s boyhood. The sheer force of world population had long ago crowded every docket of every court to impossible extremes, until measures were taken to waive as much of the paraphernalia as could be waived and hold court around the clock. That was why Moore faced Judgment at ten o"clock in the evening, two days after Christmas.
89 119.
The trial lasted less than a quarter of an hour. Moore waived representation; the charges were read; he en- tered a plea of guilty, and the judge sentenced him to death in the gas chamber without looking up from the stack of papers on his bench.
Numbly, Moore left the courtroom and was returned to a cell for his final meal, which he did not remember eat- ing. He had no conception of the juridical process in this year in which he had come to rest. The Set attorney had simply looked bored as he told him his story, then mentioned "symbolic penalties" and told him to waive representation and enter a simple plea of "guilty to the homicide as described." He signed a statement to that effect. Then the attorney had left him and Moore had not spoken with anyone but his warders up until the time of the trial, and then only a few words before he went into court. And now-to receive a death sentence after he had admitted he was guilty of killing his wife"s murderer-he could not conceive that justice had been done. Despite this, he felt an unnatural calm as he chewed mechanically upon whatever he had ordered.
He was not afraid to die. He could not believe in it.
An hour later they came for him. He was led to a small, airtight room with a single, thick window set high in its metal door. He seated himself upon the bench within it and his gray-uniformed guards slammed the door behind him.
After an interminable time he heard the pellets break- ing and he smelled the fumes. They grew stronger.