Part 14

It was clear that he was not aware I knew everything. All right! Perhaps it was necessary that it should be so. From above him, in a deliberately significant tone I said:

"I am the Builder of the _Integral_ and I am directing the test flight. Do you understand?"

The arm drew away.

The saloon. Heads covered with bristles, gray iron bristles, and yellow heads, and bald, ripe heads were bent over the instruments and maps. Swiftly, with a glance, I gathered them in with my eyes, off I ran, back along the long passage, then through the hatch into the engine-room. There it was hot from the red tubes, overheated by the explosions; a constant roar,--the levers were dancing their desperate drunken dance, quivering ceaselessly with a barely noticeable quiver; the arrows on the dials.... There! At last! Near the tachometer, a notebook in his hand, was that man with the low forehead.

"Listen," I shouted straight into his ear (because of the roar), "Is she here? Where is she?"

"She? There at the radio."

I dashed over there. There were three of them, all with receiving helmets on. And she seemed a head taller than usual, wingy, sparkling, flying like an ancient walkyrie, and those bluish sparks from the radio seemed to emanate from her,--from her also that ethereal, lightning-like odor of ozone.

"Someone--well, you for instance," I said to her, panting from having run, "I must send a message down to earth, to the docks. Come, I shall dictate it to you."

Close to the apparatus there was a small box-like cabin. We sat at the table side by side. I found her hand and pressed it hard.

"Well, what is going to happen?"

"I don't know. Do you realize how wonderful it is? To fly without knowing where ... no matter where? It will soon be twelve o'clock and nobody knows what.... And when night.... Where shall you and I be tonight? Perhaps somewhere on the grass, on dry leaves...."

Blue sparks emanated from her and the odor of lightning, and the vibration became more and more frequent within me.

"Write down," I said loudly, panting (from having run), "Time: eleven-twenty; speed 5800...."

"Last night she came to me with your note. I know ... I know everything; don't talk.... But the child is yours. I sent her over; she is already beyond the Wall. She will live...."

I was back on the commander's bridge, back in the delirious night with its black, starry sky and its dazzling sun. The hands of the clock on the table were slowly moving from minute to minute. Everything was permeated by a thin, hardly perceptible quivering (only I noticed it). For some reason a thought passed through my head: it would be better if all this took place not here but somewhere below, nearer to earth.

"Stop!" I commanded.

We kept moving by inertia, but more and more slowly. Now the _Integral_ was caught for a second by an imperceptible little hair--for a second it hung motionless, then the little hair broke and the _Integral_ like a stone dashed downward with increasing speed. That way in silence, minutes, tens of minutes passed. My pulse was audible; the hand of the clock before my eyes came closer and closer to twelve. It was clear to me I was a stone; I-330 the earth; and the stone was under irresistible compulsion to fall downward, to strike the earth and break into small particles. What if...? Already the hard blue smoke of the clouds appeared below.... What if...? But the phonograph within me with a hinge-like motion and precision took the telephone and commanded: "Low speed!" The stone ceased falling. Only the four lower tubes were growling, two ahead and two aft, only enough to hold the _Integral_ motionless, and the _Integral_, only slightly trembling, stopped in the air as if anchored, about one kilometer from the earth.

Everybody came out on deck, (it was shortly before twelve, before the sounding of the dinner-gong) and leaned over the glass railing; hastily, in huge gulps, they swallowed the unknown world which lay below, beyond the Green Wall. Amber, blue, green, the autumnal woods, prairies, a lake. At the edge of a little blue saucer, some lone yellow debris, a threatening, dried-out yellow finger,--it must have been the tower of an ancient "church" saved by a miracle....

"Look, there! Look! There to the right!"

There (over the green desert) a brown blot was rapidly moving. I held a telescope in my hands and automatically I brought it to my eyes: the grass reaching their chests, a herd of brown horses was galloping, and on their back--_they_, black, white, and dark....

Behind me:

"I assure you, I saw a face!"

"Go away! Tell it to someone else!"

"Well, look for yourself! Here is the telescope."

They had already disappeared. Endless green desert, and in that desert, dominating it completely and dominating me, and everybody--the piercing vibrations of the gong; dinner time, one minute to twelve.

For a second the little world around me became incoherent, dispersed. Someone's brass badge fell to the floor. It mattered little. Soon it was under my heel. A voice: "And I tell you, it was a face!" A black square, the open door of the main saloon. White teeth pressed together, smiling.... And at that moment, when the clock began slowly, holding its breath between beats, to strike, and when the front rows began to move towards the dining saloon, the rectangle of the door was suddenly crossed by the two familiar, unnaturally long arms:

"STOP!"

Someone's fingers sank piercing into my palm. It was I-330. She was beside me.

"Who is it, do you know him?"

"Is he not ... is he not?..."

He was already lifted upon somebody's shoulders. Above a hundred other faces, his face like hundreds, like thousands of other faces yet unique among the rest....

"In the name of the Guardians! You, to whom I talk, _they_ hear me, every one of them hears me,--I talk to you: _we know_! We don't know your numbers yet but we know everything else. The _Integral_ shall not be yours! The test flight will be carried out to the end and you yourselves, you will not dare to make another move! You with your own hands will help to go on with the test and afterward ... well, I have finished!"

Silence. The glass plates under my feet seemed soft, cotton-like. My feet too,--soft, cotton-like. Beside me--she with a dead-white smile, angry blue sparks. Through her teeth to me:

"Ah! It is your work! You did your 'duty'! Well...." She tore her hand from mine; the walkyrie helmet with indignant wings was soon to be seen some distance in front of me. I was alone, torpid, silent. Like everyone else I followed into the dining saloon.

But it was not I, not I! I told nobody, save these white, mute pages.... I cried this to her within me, inaudibly, desperately, loudly. She was across the table, directly opposite me and not once did she even touch me with her gaze. Beside her, someone's ripe, yellow, bald head. I heard (it was I-330's voice):

"'Nobility' of character! But my dear professor, even a superficial etymological analysis of the word shows that it is a superstition, a remnant of the ancient feudal epoch. We...."

I felt I was growing pale,--and that they would soon notice it. But the phonograph within me performed the prescribed fifty chewing movements for every bite. I locked myself into myself as though into an opaque house; I threw up a heap of rocks before my door and lowered the window-blinds....

Afterward, again the telephone of the commander was in my hands and again we made the flight with icy, supreme anxiety through the clouds into the icy, starry, sunny night. Minutes, hours passed.... Apparently all that time the logical motor within me was working feverishly at full speed. For suddenly somewhere at a distant point of the dark blue space I saw my desk, and the gill-like cheeks of U- over it and the forgotten pages of my records! It became clear to me; nobody but she ... everything was clear to me!

If only I could reach the radio-room soon ... wing-like helmets, the odor of blue lightnings ... I remember telling her something in a low voice and I remember how she looked _through_ me and how her voice seemed to come from a distance:

"I am busy. I am receiving a message from below. You may dictate yours to her."

The small, box-like little cabin.... I thought for a second and then dictated in a firm voice:

"Time 14:40. Going down. Motors stopped. The end of all."

The commander's bridge. The machine-heart of the _Integral_ stopped; we were falling; my heart could not catch up and would remain behind and rise higher and higher into my throat.... Clouds.... And then a distant green spot--everything green, more and more distinct, running like a storm towards us. "Soon the end."

The porcelain-like white distorted face of the Second Builder! It was he who struck me with all his strength; I hurt my head on something; and through the approaching darkness while falling I heard:

"Full speed--aft!"

A brusque jolt upward....

RECORD THIRTY-FIVE

In a Ring A Carrot A Murder

I did not sleep all night. The whole night but one thought.... As a result of yesterday's mishap my head is tightly bandaged,--it seems to me not a bandage but a ring, a pitiless ring of glass-iron, riveted about my head. And I am busy with the same thought, always the same thought in my riveted circle: to kill U-. To kill U- and then go to her and say: "Now do you believe?" What is most disquieting is that to kill is dirty, primitive. To break her head with something--the thought of it gives me a peculiar sensation of something disgustingly sweet in my mouth, and I am unable to swallow my saliva; I am always spitting into my handkerchief, yet my mouth feels dry.

I had in my closet a heavy piston-rod which cracked during the casting and which I brought home in order to find out the cause of the cracking with a microscope. I made my manuscript into a tube (let her read me to the last letter!), pushed the broken piston into that tube and went downstairs. The stairway seemed endless, the steps disgustingly slippery, liquid. I had to wipe off moisture from my mouth very frequently. Downstairs ... my heart dropped. I took out the piston and went to the controller's table, but she was not there; instead an empty, icy desk with ink-blots. I remembered that today all work was stopped; everybody was to go to be operated upon. Hence there was no need for her to stay here. There was nobody to be registered....

The street. It was windy. The sky seemed to be composed of soaring panels of cast-iron. And exactly as it seemed for one moment yesterday, the whole world was broken up into separate, sharp, independent fragments, and each of these fragments was falling at full speed; each would stop for a second, hang before me in the air and disappear without trace. It was as if the black, precise letters on this page should suddenly move apart and begin to jump hither and thither in fright, so that there was not a word on the page, only nonsensical "ap," "jum," "wor." The crowd seemed just as nonsensical, dispersed (not in rows), going forward, backward, diagonally, transversely....

Then nobody. For a second while I was dashing at full speed, suddenly stopping, I saw on the second floor in the glass cage hanging in the air,--a man and a woman--a kiss; she standing with her whole body bent backward brokenly: "This is for the last time, forever...."

At a corner a thorny, moving bush of heads. Above the heads, separate, floating in the air, a banner: "Down with the machines! Down with the Operation!" And (distinct from my own self) I thought: "Is it possible that each one of us bears such a pain, that it can be removed only with his heart.... That something must be done to each one, before he...." For a second everything disappeared for me from the world, except my beast-like hand with the heavy cast-iron package it held....

A boy appeared. He was running, a shadow under his lower lip. The lower lip turned out like the cuff of a rolled-up sleeve. His face was distorted; he wept loudly; he was running away from somebody. Stamping of feet was heard behind him....

The boy reminded me: "U- must be in school. I must hurry!" I ran to the nearest opening of the Underground Railway. At the entrance someone passed me and said, "Not running. No trains today ... there!" I descended. A sort of general delirium was reigning. The glitter of cut-crystal suns; the platform packed closely with heads. An empty, torpid train.

In the silence--a voice. I could not see her but I knew, I knew that intense, living, flexible, whip-like, flogging voice! I felt there that sharp triangle of brows drawn to the temples....

"Let me! Let me reach her! I must!..."

Someone's tentacles caught my arm, my shoulders. I was nailed. In the silence I heard:

"No. Go up to them. There they will cure you; there they will overfeed you with that leavened happiness. Satiated, you will slumber peacefully, organized, keeping time and snoring sweetly. Is it possible that you do not yet hear that great symphony of snoring? Foolish people! Don't you realize that they want to liberate you from these gnawing, worm-like, torturing question marks? And you remain standing here and listening to me? Quick! Up! To the Great Operation! What is your concern, if I remain here alone? What does it matter to you if I want to struggle, hopelessly struggle? So much the better! What does it matter to you that I do not want others to desire for me? I want to desire for myself. If I desire the impossible...."

Another voice, slow, heavy:

"Ah, the impossible! Which means to run after your stupid fancies; those fancies would whirl from under your very noses like a tail. No, we shall catch that tail, and then...."

"And then--swallow it and fall snoring; a new tail will become necessary. They say the ancients had a certain animal which they called 'Ass.' In order to make it go forward they would attach a carrot to a bow held in front of its nose, so that it could not reach it.... If it had caught and swallowed it...."

The tentacles suddenly let me go; I threw myself towards the place she was speaking from; but at that very moment everything was brought to confusion. Shouts from behind: "They are coming here! Coming here!" The lights twinkled and went out,--someone cut the cable,--and everything was like a lava of cries, groaning, heads, fingers....

I do not know how long we were rolled about that way in the underground tube. I only remember that steps were felt, dusk appeared, becoming brighter and brighter, and again we were in the street, dispersing fan-wise in different directions.

Again I was alone. Wind. Gray, low twilight crawling over my head. In the damp glass of the sidewalk, somewhere very deep, there were light topsy-turvy walls and figures moving along, feet upward. And that terribly heavy package in my hands pulled me down into that depth to the bottom.

At the desk again. U- was not yet there; her room was dark and empty. I went up to my room and turned on the light. My temples tightly bound by the iron ring were pulsating. I paced and paced, always in the same circle: my table, the white package on the table, the bed, my table, the white package on the table.... In the room to my left the curtains were lowered. To my right: the knotty bald head over a book, the enormous parabolic forehead. Wrinkles on the forehead like a series of yellow, illegible lines. At times our eyes met and then I felt that those lines were about me.

... It happened at twenty-one o'clock exactly. U- came in on her own initiative. I remember that my breathing was so loud that I could hear it and that I wanted to breathe less noisily but was unable to.

She sat down and arranged the fold of her unif on her knees. The pinkish-brown gills were waving.

"Oh, dear, is it true that you are wounded? I just learned about it, and at once I ran...."

The piston was before me on the table. I jumped up, breathing even louder. She heard, and stopped half-way through a word and rose. Already I had located the place on her head; something disgustingly sweet was in my mouth.... My handkerchief! I could not find it. I spat on the floor.

The fellow with the yellow fixed wrinkles which think of me! It was necessary that he should not see. It would be even more disgusting if he could.... I pressed the button. (I had no right to do that, but who cared about rights then?) The curtains fell.

Evidently she felt and understood what was coming for she rushed to the door. But I was quicker than she and I locked the door with the key, breathing loudly and not taking my eyes for a second away from that place on her head....

"You ... you are mad! How dare you...." She moved backward towards the bed, put her trembling hands between her knees.... Like a tense spring, holding her firmly with my gaze, I slowly stretched out my arm towards the table (only one arm could move), and I snatched the piston.

"I implore you! One day--only one day! Tomorrow I shall go and attend to the formalities...."

What was she talking about? I swung my arm.... And I consider I killed her. Yes, you my unknown readers, you have the right to call me murderer. I know that I should have dealt the blow on her head had she not screamed:

"For ... for the sake ... I agree.... I ... one moment...." With trembling hands she tore off her unif;--a large, yellow, drooping body, she fell upon the bed....

Then I understood; she thought that I pulled the curtains ... in order to ... that I wanted....

This was so unexpected and so stupid that I burst out laughing. Immediately the tense spring within me broke and my hand weakened and the piston fell to the floor.

Here I learned from personal experience that laughter is the most terrible of weapons; you can kill anything with laughter, even murder. I sat at my table and laughed desperately; I saw no way out of that absurd situation. I don't know what would have been the end if things had run their natural course, for suddenly a new factor in the arithmetical chain: the telephone rang.

I hurried, grasped the receiver. Perhaps she ... I heard an unfamiliar voice:

"Wait a minute."

Annoying, infinite buzzing. Heavy steps from afar, nearer and louder like cast-iron, and....

"D-503? The Well-Doer speaking. Come at once to me."

Ding! He hung up the receiver. Ding! like a key in a keyhole.

U- was still in bed, eyes closed, gills apart in the form of a smile. I picked up her clothes, threw them on her and said through clenched teeth:

"Well. Quick! Quick!"

She raised her body on her elbow, her breasts hanging down to one side, eyes round. She became a figure of wax.

"What?"

"Get dressed, that is what!"

Face distorted, she firmly snatched her clothes and said in a flat voice, "Turn away...."

I turned away, pressed my forehead against the glass. Light, figures, sparks, were trembling in the black, wet mirror.... No, all this was I, myself,--within me.... What did he call me for? Is it possible that he knows already about her, about me, about everything?

U-, already dressed, was at the door. I made a step toward her and pressed her hand as hard as though I hoped to squeeze out of it drop by drop what I needed.

"Listen.... Her name, you know whom I am talking of,--did you report her name? No? Tell the truth, I must.... I care not what happens, but tell the truth!"

"No."

"No? But why not, since you...."

Her lower lip turned out like the lip of that boy and her face ... tears were running down her cheeks.

"Because I ... I was afraid that if I did you might ... you would stop lov-- Oh, I cannot, I could not!"

I understood. It was the truth. Absurd, ridiculous, human truth. I opened the door.

RECORD THIRTY-SIX

Empty Pages The Christian God About My Mother

It is very strange that a kind of empty white page should be left in my head. How I walked there, how I waited (I remember I had to wait), I know nothing about it; I remember not a sound, not a face, not a gesture, as if all communicating wires between me and the world were cut.

When I came to, I found myself standing before Him; I feared to raise my eyes,--I saw only His enormous cast-iron hands upon His knees. Those hands weighed upon Him, bending His knees with their weight. He was slowly moving His fingers. His face was somewhere above as if in fog. And, only because His voice came to my ear from such a height, it did not roar like thunder, it did not deafen me but appeared to be an ordinary human voice.

"Then you too, you the Builder of the _Integral_! You, whose lot it was to become the greatest of all _conquistadores_! You whose name was to have been at the head of a glorious, new chapter of the history of the United State! You...."

Blood ran to my head, to my cheeks,--and here again a white page; only the pulsation in my temples and the heavy voice from above; but I remember not a word. Only when He became silent I came to and noticed how His hand moved heavily like a thousand pounds, and crawled slowly,--a finger threatened me.

"Well! Why are you silent? Is it true, or not? Executioner? So!"

"So," I repeated submissively. And then I clearly heard every word of His.

"Well then? Do you think I am afraid of the word! Did you ever try to take off its shell and look into its inner meaning? I shall tell you.... Remember a blue hill, a crowd, a cross? Some up on the hill, sprinkled with blood, are busy nailing a body to the cross; others below, sprinkled with tears, are gazing upward. Does it not seem to you that the part which those above must play is the more difficult, the most important part? If it were not for them, how could that magnificent tragedy ever have been staged? True, they were hissed by the dark crowd but for that the author of the tragedy, God, should have remunerated them the more liberally, should he not? And the Christian, most clement God himself, who burnt on a slow fire all the infidels, is he not an executioner? Was the number of those burned by the Christians less than the number of burned Christians? Yet (you must understand this!), yet this God was for centuries glorified as the God of love! Absurd? Oh, no. Just the contrary. It is rather a patent for the imperishable wisdom of man, written in blood. Even at the time when he still was wild and hairy man knew that real, algebraic love for humanity must inevitably be inhuman, and that the inevitable mark of truth is cruelty, just as the inevitable mark of fire is its property of causing the sensation of burning. Could you show me a fire that would not hurt? Well, prove now your point! Proceed! Argue!"

How could I argue? How could I argue when those thoughts were once mine, though I was never able to dress them in such a splendid, tempered armor. I remained silent.

"If your silence is intended to mean that you agree with me, then let us talk as adults do after the children have gone to bed; let us talk to the logical end. I ask: what was it that man from his diaper age dreamed of, tormented himself for, prayed for? He longed for that day when someone would tell him what happiness is and then would chain him to it. What else are we doing now? The ancient dream about a paradise.... Remember: there in paradise they know no desires any more, no pity, no love; there they are all--blessed. An operation has been performed upon their centre of fancy; that is why they are blessed, angels, servants of God.... And now, at the very moment when we have caught up with that dream, when we hold it like this": (He clenched his hand so, that if he had held a stone in it sap would have run out!) "At the moment when all that was left for us was to adorn our prize and distribute it amongst all in equal pieces, at that very moment you, you...."

The cast-iron roar was suddenly broken off. I was as red as a piece of iron on an anvil, under the moulding sledge-hammer. This seemed to have stopped for a second, hanging in air, and I waited, waited ... until suddenly:

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-two."