Doorways in the Sand

by Roger Zelazny

  Whatever, I took photographs that afternoon, dug holes that evening and the following morning. Spent most of the second day taking rubbings and more photos. Continued my base trench at daysend, coming across what seemed the pieces of a blunted stone chisel. Nothing quite that interesting turned up the next morning, though I kept at the digging long past the hour I had marked for quitting.

  I retired to the shade then to nurse blisters and restore my balance of liquids while I wrote up the day’s doings to that point along with some fresh thoughts that had occurred to me concerning the entire enterprise. I broke for lunch around one o’clock and doodled in my notebook again for a time afterward.

  It was a little after three when a skycar passed overhead, then turned back, descending. This troubled me a bit, as I had absolutely no official authorization for what I was doing. On some piece of paper, card, tape, or all of these, somewhere, I was listed as “tourist.” I had no idea whether a permit was required for what I was about, though I strongly suspected this. Time means a lot to me, paperwork wastes it, and I have always been a firm believer in my right to do anything I cannot be stopped from doing. Which sometimes entails not getting caught at it. This is not quite so bad as it sounds, as I am a decent, civilized, likable guy. So, shading my eyes against the blue and fiery afternoon, I began searching for ways to convince the authorities of this. Lying, I decided, was probably best.

  It came to earth and two men alit. Their appearance was not what I would ordinarily consider official, but allowance for custom and circumstance is always in order and I rose to meet them. The first man was around my height—that is, a little under six feet—but heavily built and beginning work on a paunch. His hair and eyes were light, he had a mild sunburn and was slick with sweat. His companion was a couple of inches taller, a couple of shades darker and brushed an unruly strand of dark brown hair back from his forehead as he advanced. He was lean and fit-looking. Both wore city shoes rather than boots, and their lack of head protection in that heat struck me as peculiar.

  “You Fred Cassidy?” said the first man, coming to within a few paces of me and turning away to regard the wall and my trench.

  “Yes,” I said, “I am.”

  He produced a surprisingly delicate handkerchief and patted his face with it.

  “Find what you were looking for?” he asked.

  “Wasn’t looking for anything special,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Seems as if you did an awful lot of work, looking for nothing.”

  “That’s just an exploratory trench,” I said.

  “Why are you exploring?”

  “How about telling me who you are and why you want to know?” I said.

  He ignored my question and went over to the trench. He paced along its length, stooping a couple of times and peering down into it. While he was doing this, the other man walked over to my shelter. I called out as he reached for my knapsack, but he opened it and dumped it anyway.

  He was into my shaving kit by the time I got to him. I took hold of his arm, but he jerked it away. When I tried again, he pushed me back and I stumbled. Before I hit the ground, I had decided that they were not cops.

  Rather than getting up for the next performance, I kicked out from where I lay and raked him across the shins with the heel of my boot. It was not quite as spectacular as the time I had kicked Paul Byler in the groin but was more than sufficient for my purposes. I scrambled to my feet then and caught him on the chin with a hard left. He collapsed and did not move. Not bad for one punch. If I could do it without a rock in my hand I’d be a holy terror.

  My triumph lasted all of a pair of seconds. Then a sack of cannonballs was dropped on my back, or so it seemed. I was clipped from behind and borne to the ground in a very unsportsmanlike fashion. The heavyset one was much faster than his appearance had led me to believe, and as he twisted my arm up behind my back and caught hold of my hair I began to realize that little, if any, of his bulk was of the non-functional, fatty variety. Even that central bulge was a curbstone.

  “All right, Fred. I guess it’s time to have our talk,” he said.

  Stardance . . .

  Lying there, with my abrasions, contusions, aches and confusions, I decided that Professor Merimee had come very near that still, cold center of things where definition lurks. Absurd indeed was the manner in which a dead hand was extended to give me the finger.

  Lying there, cursing subvocally as I retraced my route to the moment, I became peripherally aware of a small, dark, furry form moving along my southern boundary, pausing, staring, moving again. Doubtless something carnivorous, I decided. I fought with a shudder, transformed it into a shrug. There was no point in calling out. None whatsoever. But there could be a small measure of triumph to going out this way.

  So I tried to cultivate stoicism while straining after a better view of the beast. It touched my right leg and I jerked convulsively, but there was no pain. After a time, it moved over to my left. Had it just eaten my numbed foot? I wondered. Had it enjoyed it?

  Moments later it turned again, advancing upward along my left side, and I finally got a better look at it. I saw a stupid-looking little marsupial that I recognized as a wombat, harmless-seeming and apparently curious, hardly lusting after my extremities. I sighed and felt some of the tension go out of me. It was welcome to sniff around all it cared to. When you are going to die, a wombat is better than no company at all.

  I thought back to the weight and the twisting of my arm, as the heavy man, ignoring his fallen companion, had sat upon me and said, “All that I really want of you is the stone. Where is it?”

  “Stone?” I had said, making the mistake of adding the question mark.

  The pressure on my arm increased.

  “Byler’s stone,” he said. “You know the one I mean.”

  “Yes, I do!” I agreed. “Let up, will you? It’s no secret what happened. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Go ahead,” he said, easing up a fraction.

  So I told him about the facsimile and how we had come by it. I told him everything I knew about the damned thing.

  As I feared, he did not believe a word I said. Worse yet, his partner recovered while I was talking. He was also of the opinion that I was lying, and he voted to continue the questioning.

  This was done, and at one point many red and electric minutes later, as they paused to massage their knuckles and catch their breath, the tall one said to the heavy one, “Sounds pretty much like what he told Byler.”

  “Like what Byler said he told him,” the other corrected.

  “If you talked to Paul,” I said, “what more can I tell you? He seemed to know what was going on—which I don’t—and I told him everything I knew about the stone: exactly what I’ve just told you.”

  “Oh, we talked to him, all right,” the tall man said, “and he talked to us. You might say he spilled his guts—”

  “But I wasn’t sure of him then,” the fat man said, “and I’m less sure of him now. What do you do the minute he kicks off? You head for his old stamping grounds and start digging holes. I think the two of you were in this together somehow and that you had matching stories worked out in advance. I think the stone is around here someplace, and I think you have a pretty good idea how to put your hands on it. So you will tell us. You can do it the easy way or the hard way. Make your choice.”

  “I’ve already told you—”

  “You’ve made your choice,” he said.

  The period that followed proved something less than satisfactory for all parties concerned. They obtained nothing that they wanted, and so did I. My greatest fear at the time was mutilation. From a pummeling I can recover. If someone is willing to lop off fingers or poke out an eye, though, it puts talking or not talking a lot closer to a life-death situation. But once you start that business, it is a kind of irreversible thing. The interrogator has to keep going himself one better for so long as there is resistance, and eventually there is a point where death becomes prefer
able to life for the subject. Once that point is achieved, it becomes something of a race between the two of them, with information as one goal and death the other. Of course, uncertainty as to whether the interrogator may go this far can be just about as effective as knowing that he will. In this case, I was pretty certain they were capable of it, because of Byler. But the heavy man was unhappy with Paul’s story, I could see that. If I were to reach that same turning point and then win the race, he would be even less happy. Since he was unwilling to believe that I really did not have the information he was after, he must have assumed that I had fortitude to spare. I guess this determined his decision to proceed carefully, while in no way reducing the harsher eventuality.

  All of which I offer as preamble to his comment, “Let’s put him in the sun and watch him turn into a raisin,” followed by several moments of silken brow-blotting as he awaited my response. Disappointed by it, they staked me out where I could wrinkle, darken and concentrate my sugars, while they returned to their vehicle for an ice chest. They took up a position in the shade of my shelter, periodically strolling over to stage a beer commercial on my behalf.

  Thus the afternoon. Later, they decided that a night’s worth of wind, sand and stars were also necessary for my raisinhood. So they fetched sleeping bags and the makings of a meal from their vehicle and proceeded to encamp. If they thought the cooking odors would make me hungry, they were wrong. They just made me sick to my stomach.

  I watched the day drive west. The man in the moon was standing on his head.

  How long I had been unconscious I did not know. There were no sounds of movement from the camp and I could see no light in that direction. The wombat had crawled off to my right and settled there, making soft, rhythmic noises. He rested partly against my arm and I could feel his movements, his breathing.

  I still did not know my tormentors’ names, nor had I obtained a single new fact concerning the object of their inquiries, the star-stone. Not that it should actually have mattered, save in an academic sense. Not at that point. I was certain that I was going to die before very long. The night had delivered a jaw-jittering chill, and if it didn’t finish me I figured my inquisitors would.

  My recollection from a physiological psychology course was that it is not the absolute state of a sense organ that we perceive but rather its rate of change. Thus, if I could keep quite still, could emulate the Japanese in a steaming bath, the cold sensations should drop. But this was a matter of comfort rather than one of survival. While relief was my immediate objective, I spotted the notion of continued existence lurking at the back of my thoughts. I did not take a stick to it, however, because its methods seemed useful—which of course seems another way of saying that I am weak and irresolute. I won’t argue.

  There is a rhythmic breathing technique that always made me feel warmer when I practiced it in my yoga class. I commenced the exercise, but my breath escaped me in a rattling wheeze. I choked and began to cough.

  The wombat turned and sprang onto my chest. I began to scream, but he stuffed his paw into my mouth, gagging me. With my left hand I reached for the scruff of his neck and had hold of it before I recalled that my left hand was supposedly bound.

  He clamped down with his other three limbs, thrust his face up close to mine and whispered hoarsely, “You are complicating matters dangerously, Mister Cassidy. Release my neck immediately and keep still afterwards.”

  Obviously, then, I was delirious. Comfort within the framework of my delirium seemed a desirable end, however, so I let go his neck and attempted to nod. He withdrew his paw.

  “Very good,” he said. “Your feet are already free. I just have to finish undoing your right hand and we will be ready to go.”

  “Go?” I said.

  “Shsh!” he said, moving off to the right once more.

  So I shshed while he worked on the strap. It was the most interesting hallucination I had had in a long while. I sought among my various neuroses after the reason for its taking this form. Nothing suggested itself immediately. But then neuroses are tricky little devils, according to Doctor Marko, and one must give them their due when it comes to subtlety and sneakiness.

  “There!” he whispered moments later. “You are free. Follow me!”

  He began to move away.

  “Wait!”

  He paused, turned back.

  “What is the matter?” he asked.

  “I can’t move yet. Give my circulation a chance, will you? My hands and feet are numb.”

  He snorted and returned.

  “Then movement is the best therapy,” he said, seizing my arm and drawing me forward into a sitting position.

  He was amazingly strong for a hallucination, and he continued dragging on my arm until I fell forward onto all fours. I was shaky, but I held the pose.

  “Good,” he said, patting my shoulder. “Come on.”

  “Wait! I’m dying of thirst.”

  “Sorry. I am traveling light. If you will follow me, however, I can promise you a drink.”

  “When?”

  “Never,” he snarled, “if you just sit there. In fact, I think I hear some noises back at the camp now. Come on!”

  I began crawling toward him. He said, “Keep low,” which was rather unnecessary, as I was unable to get to my feet. He moved away from the camp then, heading in a generally easterly direction, roughly parallel to the ridge beside which I had been working. My progress was slow, and he paused periodically to allow me to catch up.

  I followed for several minutes, and then a throbbing began in my extremities, accompanied by flashes of feeling. This collapsed me, and I croaked some obscenity as I fell. He bounded toward me, but I bit off my outburst before he could repeat the paw-in-mouth trick.

  “You are a very difficult creature to rescue,” he stated. “Along with your circulatory system, your judgment and self-control seem to be of a primitive order.”

  I found another obscenity, but I whispered this one.

  “Which you continue to demonstrate,” he added. “You need do only two things—follow and keep silent. You are not very good at either. It causes one to wonder—”

  “Get moving!” I said. “I’ll follow!”

  “And your emotions—”

  I lunged at him, but he darted back and away.

  I followed, ignoring everything but the desire to throttle the little beast. It did not matter that the situation was patently absurd. I had both Merimee and Marko to draw upon for theory, an opposing pair of fun-house mirrors with me in the middle, hot on the trail of the wombat. I followed, muttering, burning adrenalin, spitting out the dust he raised. I lost track of time.

  The ridge grew lower, broke up. We moved inward, upward, then downward, passing through rocky corridors into a deeper darkness, moving over a way that was now all stone and gravel. I slipped once, and he was beside me in an instant.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  I started to laugh, controlled it.

  “Sure, I’m fine.”

  He was careful to stay out of reach.

  “It is just a little farther,” he said. “Then you can rest. I will fetch you nourishment.”

  “I am sorry,” I said, struggling to rise and failing, “but this is it. If I can wait up ahead, I can wait here. I’m out of gas.”

  “The way is rocky,” he said, “and they should not be able to track you. But I would feel better if you could continue just a little farther. There is an alcove off to the side, you see. If you were in there, chances are they would pass without seeing you if they should happen to stumble on this trail. What do you say?”

  “I say it sounds good, but I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Try again. One more time.”

  “All right.”

  I pushed myself up, wobbled, advanced. If I fell again, that was it, I decided. I would have to take my chances. I was feeling lightheaded as well as heavybodied.

  But I persisted. A hundred feet perhaps . . .

 
He led me into a hidden drive of a cul-de-sac off to the side of the rift we had been traversing. I collapsed there and everything began to swirl and ebb.

  I thought I heard him say, “I am going now. Wait here.”

  “Sure thing,” I seemed to reply.

  Another blackness. Absolute. A parched, brittle thing/place of indeterminate size/duration. I was in it and vice-versa—equally distributed and totally contained by/in the nightmare system with consciousness at C–” and chillthirstheatchillthirstheat a repeating decimal running every/anywhere on the projective plane that surrounded . . .

  Flashes and imaginings . . . “Do you hear me, Fred? Do you hear me, Fred?” Water, trickling down my throat. Another blackness. Flash. Water, on my face, in my mouth. Movement. Shadows. A moaning . . .

  Moaning. Shadows, a lesser black. Flash. Flashes. A light through parted lashes, dim. The ground below, passing. The moaning, mine.

  “Do you hear me, Fred?”

  “Yes,” I said, “yes . . .”

  The movement ceased. I overheard an exchange in a language I did not recognize. Then the ground rose. I was deposited upon it.