The Complete Dangerous Visions

by Anthology

  Christophe shuffled forward, climbing the steps of slowly crumbling concrete, philosophically observing the tired citizens about himself, their shabby clothing patched and threadbare. Ah, another sacrifice for the great effort. When N’Haiti is free to turn her energies to peace once more, things will be better. There will be new clothing, dwellings will be repaired and new ones will be built, and the vertiflot service will function once again throughout the commuter network of the Compagnie Nationale des Chemins de Fer d’N’Haiti.

  But today, ah, Christophe Belledor reached the platform at last, made his way to the rear of the crowd waiting at the edge of the flatbed for the hoverail to take them to N’Porprince. Christophe recognized several of his fellow commuters but did not try to strike up conversations. Soon, if there had been no breakdown, perhaps at Bahon or St. Marc, the train would arrive. Then there would be a rush to get aboard, for trains did not run as frequently as once they had and those who missed one sometimes could not wait for another, and had to walk to work.

  When the hoverail finally arrived Christophe was fortunate—he managed to crowd into the front car and stood wedged between a fat man he had seen many times but never spoken to, and the attractive daughter of his neighbor Leclerc, Yvette. She smiled at him as the sway of the car moving from the Bizonton pylon forced their bodies together for a moment. Christophe felt flustered, tried to look away and pretend he had not noticed the young girl or her reaction to their accidental contact, then grinned in embarrassment as she giggled at him.

  After the hoverail had halted in N’Porprince and the crowd of workers had forced their way off, he relived the brief and wordless exchange as he walked through the stuffy passageways connecting the central hoverail pylon with the Ministry. He stopped at the stall of Maurice in the lobby of the ministry, looked at the morning’s Hatian and almost purchased a copy. First, though, he counted the few plastic sous in his trousers pocket and decided that someone in the office would have a copy.

  He took his hand back from his pocket, walked past the wooden stall with a shamefaced, “Bonjour, M. Maurice.”

  M. Maurice’s reply was a snarl which Christophe did not quite manage to avoid hearing as he started up the stairs. Eh, even the Ministry of Military Manpower Procurement could not obtain repairs for its vertiflot in wartime. The scurrying about that had taken place, the shouted commands and helpless shrugs that had been exchanged when word arrived that none other than the Premier was planning a visit to the Ministry, and would have to climb wooden stairs to reach the office of the Minister!

  The Premier had reacted surprisingly. No vertiflot, he exclaimed, well, in wartime we must all sacrifice. And, taking the trembling arm of the Minister he had walked up flights of stairs to confer. Word had spread and with it relief—the Premier had not complained of the broken vertiflot. The Minister’s neck was saved. Department heads were spared expected tongue-lashings. Employees breathed easier throughout the Ministry. Such was war, and such was the operation of the Government.

  But this day was another day, and with it there came another problem. As Christophe contemplated the staff study he was to complete editing for the Deputy Minister he clucked in his mouth and shook his head with worry. The pleasant thought of Yvette was eradicated by the stern problems of manpower procurement and the folly of the Deputy Minister’s plan.

  With the study, the promising career of Marius Goncourt would come to a sudden end as the Minister came to realize fully the nature of M. Goncourt’s proposal, and with M. Goncourt would fall his staff, including—most emphatically including—Christophe Belledor.

  Winded and perspiring, Christophe reached the landing of his department. He leaned against the door-jamb for a moment and wiped his forehead with a tattered pocket-kerchief, then entered the large room. Most of the others had arrived ahead of him. Madame Bonsard, the secretary and receptionist, greeted him with an unpleasant smile and, “Bonjour, M. Belledor. Madame Belledor, she failed to waken you this morning?”

  Christophe tried to smile as he walked past the desk of Madame Bonsard, but did not speak to her. He glanced at the clock as he passed beneath it. Eh, 0700 hours already, he was late once again. He turned to speak: “The hoverail, Madame Bonsard, there is nothing that one can do, you know. Perhaps you will not . . .” He caused his voice to trail off in quiet hope, but already he could see that Madame Bonsard was marking the hour of his arrival on the weekly personnel report.

  “Wartime, M. Belledor,” she said. “We must all do our bit, eh? Surely you would not wish me to falsify an official report of the Ministry.”

  Christophe shook his head and made his way to his desk. This day, he could tell already, would not be a good one. Another lateness ticked on his card, and the way he felt, eh, this day would be a hot one. But chiefly, there was the study of the Deputy Minister to be grappled with. Christophe fumbled in his pocket, draw out a group of keys, sorted them until he found the one he wanted and bent to unlock the drawers of his wooden desk.

  Again he paused to wipe perspiration. Ah, when the war was over there would again be air conditioning in the offices of the Ministry. Such a pleasure it would be then, to arrive at work on a steaming day and perform his duties in the cool air of the machines now standing idle for lack of service and parts, and for lack of power to make them function even if service and parts were available. On such a day, to go home cool and refreshed to Marie-Auedda, on a hoverail not so crowded as they now were, and down a vertiflot. Well, one must wait for peace.

  He reached into a locked drawer, removed a brown pasteboard folder and placed it on his desk. From the next desk a voice asked, “Is that the famous report of M. Goncourt, Christophe?”

  “The very one,” he replied. “When M. the Minister sees this, we are all finished. Deputy Minister Goncourt, Belledor the staff assistant, Madame Bonsard, all of us. You also, Phillipe.” Christophe nodded sadly.

  “Come now,” Phillipe teased. “It is not all that bad. How can it be, Christophe?”

  M. Belledor sat for a moment, his eyes fixed on the cover of the report. Then he turned his chair to face Phillipe. He leaned forward. “You do not take me seriously,” he said, “but I will tell you what M. Goncourt is proposing. Then you will not think so lightly of it.”

  Phillipe looked with mock alarm. “Christophe, is the report of the Deputy Minister not marked with a security level? How can you discuss it then?”

  “I am sure that you are a spy, Phillipe. Everything you know goes directly to N’Montgomery, of course.” He snorted. “You have the same clearance as I or you would not be in your position one hour! Now, do you wish to know what the Deputy Minister has in mind?”—he tapped the folder with the fingertips of one hand—“or do you not?”

  The other nodded. “Yes, yes, tell me what he proposes,” he said, a supercilious look crossing his face.

  Christophe paused. Then, “You know, Phillipe, the manpower demands of the war and the general effect it is having on our economy. We must support not one but three national efforts at once. To fight the enemy we must man our ships with spacemen of every sort—officers, gunners, maintenance crews, boarding brigades, communications men, medical, supply clerks, cooks, everything!”

  “Yes, yes,” said Phillipe, “we all know that. So what?”

  Christophe continued, undisturbed. “To support that direct effort of war requires a whole economy. Spaceship yards to repair battle and supply ships damaged by the enemy and to perform normal maintenance, as well as to build new warcraft to carry the battle to the blancs of N’Alabama.

  “Weapons manufactories. Ammunition plants. Training and supply bases for our forces. Medical facilities for wounded. Transportation and supply systems. A constant stream of replacements and support. Do you know, Phillipe, there are between six and seven N’Haitians in and out of the planet’s military force to support each space soldier actually in combat?”

  Phillipe showed impatience. He grunted a bored yes.

  “Well then,” Christophe
went on, “that is still not all. For beneath our military effort and all that goes to support it, N’Haiti must still maintain its own basic economy. We sacrifice such luxuries as the vertiflot and the comfort of cool air in the Ministry, but essential functions must be maintained or there will be no economy to support the economy that supports the military!” He placed his hands conclusively on his knees and leaned back, looking triumphantly at the younger man.

  “Eh,” shrugged Phillipe, “I still say, so what? You only mouth the commonplace. Everyone knows this. Is this the sensitive report of the Deputy Minister? It is the weekly project of the sixth-year school child. Christophe, you disappoint me. Deputy Minister Goncourt disappoints me.”

  “No, no,” interrupted M. Belledor, “you are always so impatient, Phillipe! Now wait. M. Goncourt sets forth the obvious in his report, true enough, but it is necessary as background for the Minister. M. Antoine-Simone is not too clever, do you think?”

  Phillipe conceded.

  Christophe went on: “N’Haiti must support three complete economies then. M. Goncourt designates these the pure military, the military support, and the civil support economies. Each requires finance, planning, control. Each requires its share of our planet’s resources. Most of all, each requires the efforts of the people. A farmer on La Gonave—”

  “What has the moon to do with it?” Phillipe interrupted.

  Christophe brought his fist into the palm of his hand angrily. “All of N’Haiti has to do with it! Do not interrupt! A man who is farming on La Gonave is not working in the factories of Miragoane! A munitions worker in Miragoane is not serving on board the Toussaint l’Ouverture! A marine aboard the Dessalines is not tending crops on La Gonave!” Panting, M. Belledor slumped back in his swivel chair.

  Solemnly his companion said, “The profundity of M. Goncourt does not fail to astound me. Christophe, we are indeed fortunate to be in the department of the Deputy Minister.” He leaned forward and slapped Christophe on the shoulder, roaring with laughter. The office turned and stared. Madame Bonsard clucked disapprovingly and jotted a note.

  Christophe fumed angrily. Finally he spoke. “Phillipe, you, an employee of the Ministry above all citizens, should have an understanding of the biggest problem of the war. We lack manpower to support three demands at once. The fleet of Grand Admiral Gouede Mazacca suffers terrible losses. So do the cursed blancs, but you know the blancs, Phillipe, they breed like beasts.

  “Gouede Mazacca demands new troops, La Ferriere does not delay to provide them. The pool is dry, Minister Antoine-Simone is called upon. Ah, well, all the strong men of the planet are at work in the war economy. Out they go, off to Grand Admiral Gouede Mazacca on the Jean Christophe, off to fight the blancs, off to become casualties. But the military support economy cannot be neglected, eh? Ships, weapons, power plants, ammunition—they must continue to flow! So—where do the workers come from? From the civil economy!

  “Have you seen the reports of Governor Faustin, Phillipe?” Christophe went on without waiting for an answer: “He is running the great agricultural stations of La Gonave with old men, women, school children. No wonder food is short. Without a strong civil economy, the war supplies will not long flow. Then . . .” Christophe shrugged.

  Phillipe said, “And Deputy Minister Goncourt has a solution?”

  Christophe picked up the pasteboard-covered report. “He thinks he has. I think he is perhaps mad.”

  Obviously interested at last, Phillipe said, “And his plan?”

  Christophe leaned back once more, luxuriating in his advantage over the younger man. “You take me seriously at last, eh? Well then, answer me some questions and then I will answer yours.”

  Phillipe leaned forward. Christophe said, “Do you know who is Dangbe? Ayida-Oueda? Have you heard of Papa Legba, of Ayizan, Tokpodu, Zo, Heviyoso, Kpo, Agone, Gbo?”

  Phillipe sat mystified, silent.

  “None of them?” Christophe asked. “Not one?” The other shook his head. “Have you never visited the Gran Houmfort Nationale, Phillipe?”

  Again, a shake of the head. “Christophe, I do not know what you are speaking about. Those names. But I have visited the Gran Houmfort from time to time. It is the great museum of N’Haiti. What is the relation of all this to the war?”

  “Phillipe, Phillipe, ahh.” Christophe paused for dramatic effect; a plain man, still he did not mind the moment of suspense, the attention of an audience of even one person.

  “Surely, the Gran Houmfort is a museum. Obviously you have not visited the wing devoted to O’Haitian culture. You have never heard of the great vodus of O’Haiti, of O’Earth. You have never heard of Gbo, great vodu of war, of Heviyoso, vodu of storm, of Legba, vodu of fertility. And you have never heard of Dangbe, vodu lord, king of all.

  “Phillipe, you do not know that in O’Haiti the houmfort was the shrine of the vodus. You never heard of the rites of vodu, the sacrifice of the black rooster, the ouanga bag, the danse calinda, the zombie?”

  The younger man broke in. “This is madness, Christophe! Does Goncourt think to provide Gouede Mazacca’s fleet with crews of zombies? He is insane! It is all insane!”

  Christophe sat quietly. He waited for the excitement to pass from the other. At last Phillipe sat quietly, also. “Tell me it is not so, Christophe. The Deputy Minister cannot be so mad. He does not seriously propose this insane magic.”

  Christophe tapped the pasteboard on his desk slowly. “Yes,” he said at last. “Deputy Minister Goncourt believes that he can make the ancient legends real. Not by magic. He calls upon no vodu spirits. He works with the Department of Medical Science. He proposes to use resuscitated space casualties from both our own fleet and the enemy’s to fill our needs.

  “He claims he can do this by implanting a small sea creature found on an undisclosed planet at the base of the cortex of the casualty. And, Phillipe . . .” He gazed directly into the eyes of the other man. “. . . Phillipe, he has initiated a pilot study of this madness. The parasitic creatures are already being harvested.”

  Christophe leaned back once again. After a few moments, Phillipe turned away, to his own work. Christophe opened the pasteboard folder on his desk, drew a blue pencil from the top drawer, and began marking punctuation and spelling changes for Madame Bonsard, who would mech-write the final version of M. Goncourt’s report to Minister Antoine-Simone. Christophe sighed as he wrote, and his mind wandered to the earlier encounter he had had with Yvette Leclerc.

  3. The Bright Sea of N’Yu-Atlanchi

  Ch’en-Tch’aa-Zch’uwn writhes slowly, drifting supine in the shallow saline fluid that covers and penetrates all of N’Yu-Atlanchi. Her extended limbs, little more than vestigial after forgotten generations of weightlessness, retain still sufficient muscularity to guide Ch’en-Tch’aa-Zch’uwn from eddy to eddy as the heat-currents and multilunar tides of N’Yu-Atlanchi carry to her endlessly varied sensations. At times, she turns soft, cartilagenous hands, like rudders, directing herself, choosing to be carried by this stream or that, occasionally meeting a current sideways-on, rolling, the alternation of refracted sky and shallow sea-bottom creating a whirling spiral of visual sensation upon which she meditates long after its cessation.

  Ch’en-Tch’aa-Zch’uwn is small for a S’tscha. Her large, flat eyes have seen the chief moon of N’Yu-Atlanchi die three times, the lesser moons no fewer than twice nor more than four score times. Like all S’tscha, she emerged from the womb of the All-Mother a living speck, little more than a blastula devoid of limb, the many nerve endings which now premeate her epidermis then more sparse in distribution and fewer in number.

  She does not know how long she spent in the sea-filled, glowing crystalline caverns and grottoes of N’Yu-Atlanchi. She does not know of the seemingly inexhaustible parthenogenetic fertility of the All-Mother. She does not know of the crippled high-speed traveler of metal that bore her distant, giant, human ancestors to N’Yu-Atlanchi.

  Certainly Ch’en-Tch’aa-Zch’uwn does not think
of herself as human. It is debatable whether she thinks of herself at all, or whether she thinks at all.

  She senses.

  Touch, odor, flavor, these are no longer differentiated. The skin of Ch’en-Tch’aa-Zch’uwn is populated with nerve-endings. She feels through her skin, feels the warmth of NGC 7007 the sun of N’Yu-Atlanchi, feels the comforting buoyancy and saline intimacy of the nutrient waters upon and to an extent within her body at every point. It is, in a sense, very like sexual intercourse, but endless, except as her life will some day end, and without beginning, except as sensation began for Ch’en-Tch’aa-Zch’uwn at the instant that she quickened, a fatherless zygote, within the womb of the All-Mother in the buried, drowned centermost grotto of N’Yu-Atlanchi.

  Her role is confused. Ch’en-Tch’aa-Zch’uwn is female, at least in the sense, and to the extent, that the offspring of the parthenogenetic All-Mother inherit all their chromosomes from that undeniably female parent. Is this three-centimeter-long child of the All-Mother then a living yoni, somehow inverted, presenting all of the moist, sensitive membrane of its calling passages to the total caress of the universally-penetrating sea? Or is she a living lingam, male though female, enveloped in the perfectly and wholly receptive sea? Her role is confused.

  On the chief satellite of N’Yu-Atlanchi, often visible to Ch’en-Tch’aa-Zch’uwn, a miniscule blemish marks the soil of one small area that would assay an iron content slightly on the high side of normal, were there an assayer present, which there is not. One of the lesser moons of N’Yu-Atlanchi sustains upon its otherwise barren face a machine that is broken and does not function. The machine has been there as long as the iron has been on the greater moon of N’Yu-Atlanchi, but as the lesser moon is without atmosphere the machine has neither rusted, nor corroded, nor been torn by the green fingers of patiently indomitable vegetation, nor been pulverized by rain, nor crushed beneath snow, nor squeezed by ice.