Universe 1 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Terry Carr

  “Listen, you pale imitation of an open mind. Can’t you see? They’re the most selfish people alive. They want to take nothing from themselves, give nothing to their son.”

  Silence for a few seconds.

  Jade Blue again: “You’re a kind man, but so damned obtuse!”

  “I’m quite fond of George,” said the inventor.

  “And I also. I love him as one of my own. It’s too bad his own parents don’t.”

  In the hallway George was caught in an ambivalence of emotion. He missed his parents horribly. But he also loved Jade Blue. So he began to cry.

  * * * *

  Obregon tinkered with a worms’ warren of platinum filaments.

  Jade Blue paced the interior of the laboratory and wished she could switch her vestigial tail.

  George finished his milk and licked the last cookie crumb from his palm.

  A large raven flapped lazily through a window in the far end of the lab. “Scraw! Scraw!”

  “Ha!” The inventor snapped his fingers and glistening panes slid into place; the doors shut; the room was sealed. Apparently confused, the raven fluttered in a tight circle, screaming in hoarse echoes.

  “Jade, get the boy down!” Obregon reached under the APE’s console and came up with a cocked and loaded crossbow. The bird saw the weapon, snap-rolled into a turn and dive, darted for the closest window. It struck the pane and rebounded.

  George let Jade Blue pull him down under one of the lab tables.

  Wings beat furiously as the raven caromed off a wall, attempting evasive action. Obregon coolly aimed the crossbow and squeezed the trigger. The short square-headed quarrel passed completely through the raven and embedded itself in the ceiling. The bird, wings frozen in mid-flap, cartwheeled through the air and struck the floor at Obregon’s feet. Stray black feathers autumnleafed to the floor.

  The inventor gingerly toyed the body; no movement. “Fool. Such underestimation.” He turned to Jade Blue and his nephew, who were extracting themselves from beneath the table. “Perhaps I’m less distracted than you charge.”

  The catmother licked delicately at her rumpled blue fur. “Care to explain all this?”

  Obregon picked up the body of the raven with the air of a man lifting a package of particularly fulsome garbage. “Simulacrum,” he said. “A construct. If I dissected it properly I’d discover a quite sophisticated surveillance and recording system.” He caught Jade Blue’s green eyes. “It’s a spy, you see.” He dropped the carcass into the disposer where it vanished in a golden flare and the transitory odor of well-done meat.

  “It was big,” said George.

  “Good observation. Wingspread of at least two meters. That’s larger than any natural raven.”

  “Who,” asked Jade Blue, “is spying?”

  “A competitor, fellow named Le Goff, a man of no certain ethics and fewer scruples. A day ago he brought his spies here to check the progress of my new invention. It was all done very clumsily so that I’d notice. Le Goff is worse than a mere thief. He mocks me.” Obregon gestured toward the artificial probability enhancer.

  “It’s that he wishes to complete before I do.”

  “A crystal pillar?” said Jade Blue. “How marvelous.”

  “Quiet, cat. My machine can edit time. I will be able to alter the present by modifying the past.”

  “Is that all it does?”

  Obregon seemed disgusted. “In my own home I don’t need mockery.”

  “Sorry. You sounded pompous.”

  The inventor forced a laugh. “I suppose so. It’s Le Golf who has driven me to that. All I’ve ever wanted was to be left in peace to work my theories. Now I feel I’m being forced into some sort of confrontation.”

  “And competition?”

  Obregon nodded. “Just why, I don’t know. I worked with Le Goff for years at the Institute. He was always a man of obscure motives.”

  “You’re a good shot,” said George.

  Obregon self-consciously set the crossbow on the console. “It’s a hobby. I’d only practiced with stationary targets before.”

  “Can I try it?”

  “I think you’re probably too small. It takes a great deal of strength to cock the bow.”

  “I’m not too small to pull the trigger.”

  “No,” said Obregon. “You’re not.” He smiled. “After lunch we’ll go out to the range. I’ll let you shoot.”

  “Can I shoot a bird?”

  “No, not a live one. I’ll have some simulacrae made up.”

  “Timnath,” said Jade Blue. “I don’t suppose— No, probably not.”

  “What.”

  “Your machine. It can’t change dreams.”

  * * * *

  Mother, Father, help me I don’t want the dreams any more. Just the warm black that’s all. Mother? Father? Why did you go when will you come back? You leave me left me make me hurt.

  Uncle Timnath, get them bring them back. Tell them I hurt I need. Make them love me.

  Jade Blue, rock me hold me love me bring them back now. No no don’t touch me there you’re like Merreile I don’t want more bad dreams don’t hurt don’t—

  And Merreile would come into his bedroom each evening to take him from his toys and prepare him for bed. She would undress him slowly and slip the nightshirt over his head, then sit crosslegged at the foot of the bed while he lay back against the pillow.

  “A story before sleeping? Of course, my love. Shall I tell again of the vampires?

  “Do you remember my last telling, love? No? Perhaps I caused you to forget.” And she would smile, showing the bands of scarlet cartilage where most people had teeth.

  “Once upon a time, there was a little boy, much like you, who lived in an enormous old house. He was alone there, except for his parents and his loving governess.

  “Oh, quite true that there were vampires hiding in the attic, but they weren’t much like living creatures at all. They seldom ventured from the attic and the boy was never allowed to go there. His parents had forbidden him, despite the fact that the attic was filled with all manner of interesting and enjoyable things.

  “The boy’s curiosity grew and grew until one night he slipped out of his room and quietly climbed the stairs to the attic. At the top of the flight he paused, remembering his parents’ warning. Then he recalled what he had heard about the strange treasures that lay within. He knew that warnings come from dull people and should be ignored. That barriers are made to be crossed. And then he opened the attic door.

  “Inside were rows of tables stacked high with every sort of game and toy imaginable. Between were smaller tables laden with candy and cakes and pitchers of delicious drink. The boy was never happier.

  “At that moment the vampires came out to play. They looked much like you and me, except that they were black and very quiet and just as thin as shadows.

  “They crowded around the boy and whispered to him to come join their games. They loved the boy very much, because people came so seldom to the attic to visit. They were very honest (for folk so thin cannot hold lies) and the boy knew how silly his parents’ warnings had been. Then they went off to the magic lands in the far end of the attic and played for hours and hours.

  “What games, darling? I will show you.”

  And then Merreile would switch off the light and reach for him.

  * * * *

  No, it can’t change dreams,Timnath had said, musing. Then, looking through the catmother’s eyes as though jade were glass, he said,Give me time; I must think on it.

  They sat and talked in the blue bedroom.

  “Did you ever have children like me?” George hugged his drawn-up knees.

  “Not like you.”

  “I mean, were they kittens, or more like babies?”

  “Both if you like. Neither.” Her voice was neutral.

  “You’re not playing fair. Answer me.” The child’s voice was ancient, petulant from long practice.

  “What do you want to know?”<
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  George’s fists beat a rapid tattoo on his knees. “Your children, what were they like? I want to know what happened to them.”

  Silence for a while. Small wrinkles under Jade Blue’s lip, as though she held something bitter in her mouth. “They were never like anything.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Because they weren’t. They came from Terminex the computer. They lived in him and died in him; he placed the bright images in my brain.”

  George sat straighter; this was better than a bedtime story. “But why?”

  “I’m the perfect governess. My maternal instincts are augmented. I’ve hostages in my mind.” Each word was perfectly cut with gemstone edges.

  Petulance softened to a child’s compassion. “It makes you very sad.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When I’m sad I cry.”

  “I don’t,” said Jade Blue. “I can’t cry.”

  “I’ll be your son,” said George.

  * * * *

  The hall of diurnal statues was still. Jade Blue prowled the shadows, seeking the slight sounds and odors and temperature differentials. The encroaching minutes frustrated and made her frantic. The many nights of sleepless watch—and the eventual betrayal by her body. Again she looked for a lost child.

  Not in the game room this time; the hobbyhorses grinned vacantly.

  Nor in the twenty gray parlors where George’s ancestors kept an embalmed and silent vigil from their wall niches.

  Nor in the attic, dusty and spiderwebbed.

  Not in the dining hall, arboretum, kitchens, aquatorium, library, observatory, family room or linen closets.

  Not— Jade Blue ran down the oak hallway and the minute signs vindicated her caprice. She ran faster and when she hurled herself into the corner which kleined into the approach to Timnath Obregon’s laboratory, her stomach turned queasily.

  The door slid open at a touch. The lab was dimly illuminated by the distorted yellow lights of Cinnabar. Several things occurred at once:

  —In front of her, a startled figure looked up from the console of Obregon’s APE. A reeled measuring tape dropped and clattered on tile.

  —Across the lab a group of capering shadow figures stopped the act they were committing on George’s prone body and looked toward the door.

  —A screeching bird-shape flapped down from the dark ceiling and struck at Jade Blue’s eyes.

  The catmother ducked and felt claws cut harmless runnels through fur. She rolled onto her back and lashed out, her own claws extended. She snagged something heavy that screamed and buffeted her face with feathered wings. She knew she could kill it.

  Until the booted foot came down on her throat and Jade Blue looked up past the still-struggling bird-thing at whoever had been examining Obregon’s invention. “Sorry,” said the man, and pressed harder.

  “George!” Her voice was shrill, strangled. “Help.” And then the boot was too heavy to let by any words at all. The darkness thickened intolerably.

  The pressure stopped. Jade Blue could not see, but— painfully—she could again breathe. She could hear, but she didn’t know what the noises were. There were bright lights and Timnath’s concerned face, and arms lifting her from the floor. There was warm tea and honey poured into a saucer. George was hugging her and his tears put salt in the tea.

  Jade Blue rubbed her throat gingerly and sat up; she realized she was on a white lab table. On the floor a little way from the table was an ugly mixture of feathers and wet red flesh. Something almost unrecognizable as a man took a ragged breath.

  “Sebastian,” said Timnath, kneeling beside the body. “My dear friend.” He was crying.

  “Scraw!” said the dying man; and died.

  “Did you kill him?” said Jade Blue, her voice hoarse.

  “No, the shadows did.”

  “How?”

  “Unpleasantly.” Timnath snapped his fingers twice and the glittering labrats scuttled out from the walls to clean up the mess.

  “Are you all right?” George stood very close to his governess. He was shivering. “I tried to help you.”

  “I think you did help me. We’re all alive.”

  “He did, and we are,” said Timnath. “For once, George’s creations were an aid rather than a hindrance.”

  “I still want you to do something with your machine,” said Jade Blue.

  Timnath looked sadly down at the body of Sebastian Le Goff. “We have time.”

  * * * *

  Time progressed helically, and one day Timnath pronounced his invention ready. He called George and Jade Blue to the laboratory. “Ready?” he said, pressing the button which would turn on the machine.

  “I don’t know,” said George, half hiding behind Jade Blue. “I’m not sure what’s happening.”

  “It will help him,” said Jade Blue. “Do it.”

  “He may be lost to you,” said Timnath.

  George whimpered. “No.”

  “I love him enough,” said the governess. “Do it.” The crystal pillar glowed bright orange. A fine hum cycled up beyond the auditory range. Timnath tapped on the keyboard: george’s dreams of the shadow vampires are as never were. merreile never existed. george is optimally happy.

  The inventor paused, then stabbed a special button:

  revise.

  The crystal pillar glowed bright orange. A fine hum cycled up beyond the auditory range. Timnath tapped on the keyboard: george’s dreams of the shadow vampires are as never were. merreile never existed. george is reasonably happy.

  Timnath considered, then pushed another button:

  activate.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “Something’s leaving us,” Jade Blue whispered. They heard a scuff of footsteps in the outer hall. Two people walking. There was the clearing of a throat, a parental cough.

  “Who’s there?” said Jade Blue, knowing.

  <>

  * * * *

  * * * *

  R. A. Lafferty knows a lot about the history and customs of odd ethnic groups on our planet, as he’s shown in his novel FOURTH MANSIONS and in any number of his short stories: there are unknown peoples among us, he likes to say, who have talents we might not expect. For instance, the people of the Travertine islands, which float in the sky—there’s one of those islands called Stutzamutza, and its people are worth visiting. Especially if you want to build a 400-foot-high pagoda of pink marble. Or even if you don’t.

  NOR LIMESTONE ISLANDS

  R. A. Lafferty

  A lapidary is one who cuts, polishes, engraves and sets small stones. He is also a scrivener with a choppy style who sets in little stones or pieces here and there and attempts to make a mosaic out of them.

  But what do you call one who cuts and sets very large stones?

  * * * *

  Take a small lapillus or stone for instance:

  “The origin of painting as an art in Greece is connected with definite historical personages; but that of sculpture is lost in the mists of legend. Its authentic history does not begin until about the year B.C. 600. It was regarded as an art imparted to men by the gods; for such is the thought expressed in the assertion that the earliest statues fell from heaven.”

  Article Statuaria Ars; Sculpture—

  Harper’s Dictionary of Classical Literature

  and Antiquities.

  * * * *

  We set that little stone in one corner, even though it contains a misunderstanding of what fell from heaven: it wasn’t finished statues.

  Then we set another small stone: (We haven’t the exact citation of this. It’s from Charles Fort or from one of his imitators.) It’s of a scientist who refused to believe that several pieces of limestone had fallen from the sky, even though two farmers had seen them fall. They could not have fallen from the sky, the scientist said, because there is no limestone in the sky. (What would that scientist have done if he had been confronted with the question of Whales in the Sky?)

 
We set that little stone of wisdom into one corner. And we look around for other stones to set.

  * * * *

  The limestone salesman was making his pitch to the city commissioners. He had been making a poor pitch and he was a poor salesman. All he had was price (much less than one tenth that of the other bidders) and superior quality. But the limestone salesman did not make a good appearance. He was bare-chested (and colossally deep-chested). He had only a little shoulder jacket above, and a folded drape below. On his feet he had thecrepida or Hermes-sandals, made of buckskin apparently: a silly affectation. He was darkly burnt in skin and hair, but the roots of his hair and of his skin indicated that he was blond in both. He was golden-bearded, but the beard (and in fact the whole man) was covered with chalk-dust or rock-dust. The man was sweaty, and he smelled. His was a composite smell of limestone and edged bronze and goats and clover and honey and ozone and lentils and sour milk and dung and strong cheese.