"If this continues," Burton said to Collop, "he will go mad or he will kill himself again, or force someone to kill him, so that he can get away from himself. But the suicide will be useless, and it’s all to do over again. Tell me truly now, is this hell?"
"Purgatory, rather," Collop said. "Purgatory is hell with hope.’
24
Two months passed. Burton marked the days off on a pine stick notched with a flint knife. This was the fourteenth day of the seven month of 5 A.R., the fifth year After the Resurrection. Burton tried to keep a calendar, for he was, among many other things; a chronicler. But it was difficult. Time did not mean much, on The River. The planet had a polar axis that was always at ninety degrees to the ecliptic. There was no change of seasons, and the stars seemed to jostle each other and made identification of individual luminaries or of constellations impossible. So many and so bright were they that even the noonday sun at its zenith could not entirely dim the greatest of them. Like ghosts reluctant to retreat before daylight, they hovered in the burning air.
Nevertheless, man needs time as a fish needs water. If he does not have it, he will invent it; so to Burton, it was July 14, 5 A.R.
But Collop, like many, reckoned time as having continued from the year of his Terrestrial death. To him, it was A.D. 1667. He did not believe that his sweet Jesus had become sour. Rather, this River was the River Jordan; this valley, the vale beyond the shadow of death. He admitted that the afterlife was not that which he had expected. Yet it was evidence of the all-encompassing love of God for His creation. He had given all men, altogether undeserving of such a gift, another chance. If this world was not the New Jerusalem, it was a place prepared for its building. Here the bricks, which were the love of God, and the mortar, love for man, must be fashioned in this kiln and this mill: the planet of The River of The Valley.
Burton pooh-poohed the concept, but he could not help loving the little man. Collop was genuine; he was not stoking the furnace of his sweetness with leaves from a book or pages from a theology. He did not operate under forced draft. He burned with a flame that fed on his own being, and this being was love. Love even for the unlovable, the rarest and most difficult species of love.
He told Burton something of his Terrestrial life. He had been a doctor, a farmer, a liberal with unshakable faith in his religion, yet full of questions about his faith and the society of his time. He had written a plea for religious tolerance which had aroused both praise and damnation is his time. And he had been a poet, well-known for a short time, then forgotten.
Lord, let the faithless see
Miracles ceased, revive in me.
The leper cleansed, blind healed,
dead raised by Thee
"My lines may have died, but their truth has not," he said to Burton. He waved his hand to indicate the hilts, The River, the mountains, the people. "As you may see if you open your eyes and do not persist in this stubborn myth of yours that this is the handiwork of men like us."
He continued, "Or grant your premise. It still remains that these Ethicals are but doing the work of Their Creator!
"I like better those other lines of yours," Burton said.
Dull soul aspire;
Thou art not the Earth.
Mourn higher!
Heaven gave the spark;
to it return the fire.’
Collop was pleased, not knowing that Burton was thinking of the lines in a different sense than that intended by the poet.
"Return the fire." That meant somehow getting into the Dark Tower, discovering the secrets of the Ethicals, and turning Their devices against Them. He did not feel gratitude because They had given him an earned life. He was outraged that They should do this without his leave. If They wanted his thanks, why did They not tell him why They had given him another chance? What reason did They have for keeping Their motives in the dark? He would find out why. The spark They had restored in him would turn into a raging fire to barn Them.
He cursed the fate that had propelled him to a place so near the source of The River, hence so close to the Tower, and in a few minutes had carried him away again, back to some place is the middle of The River, millions of miles away from his goal.
Yet, if he had been there once, he could get there again. Not by taking a boat, since the journey would consume at least forty years and probably more. He could also count on being captured and enslaved a thousand times over. And if he were killed along the way, he might find himself raised again far from his goal and have to start all over again.
On the other hand, given the seemingly random selection of resurrection, he might find himself once more near The River’s mouth. It was this that determined him to board The Suicide Express once more. However, even though he knew that his death would be only temporary, he found it difficult to take the necessary step. His mind told him that death was the only ticket, but his body rebelled. The cells" fierce insistence on survival overcame his will.
For a while, he rationalized that he was interested in studying the customs and languages of the prehistorics among whom he was living. Then honesty triumphed, and he knew he was only looking for excuses to put off the Grim Moment. Despite this, he did not act.
Burton, Collop, and Göring were moved out of their bachelor barracks to take up the normal life of citizens: Each took up residence in a hut, and within a week had found a woman to live with him. Collop’s Church did not require celibacy. A member could take an oath of chastity if he wished to. But the Church reasoned that men and women had been resurrected in bodies that retained the full sex of the original. (Or, if lacking on Earth, supplied here.) It was evident that the Makers of Resurrection had meant for sex to be used. It was well known, though still denied by some, that sex had other functions than reproduction. So go ahead, youths, roll in the grass.
Another result of the inexorable logic of the Church (which, by the way, decried reason as being untrustworthy) was that any form of love was allowed, as long as it was voluntary and did not involve cruelty or force. Exploitation of children was forbidden. This was a problem that, given time, would cease to exist. In a few years all children would be adults.
Collop refused to have a hutmate solely to relieve his sexual tensions. He insisted on a woman whom he loved. Burton jibed at him for this, saying that it was a prerequisite easily — therefore cheaply — fulfilled. Collop loved all humanity; hence, he should theoretically take the first woman who would say yes to him.
"As a matter of fact, my friend," Collop said, "that is exactly what happened."
"It’s only a coincidence that she’s beautiful, passionate, and intelligent?" Burton said.
"Though I strive to be more than human, rather, to become a complete human, I am all-too-human," Collop replied. He smiled. "Would you have me deliberately martyr myself by choosing an ugly shrew?"
"I’d think you more of a fool than I do even now," Burton said. "As for me, all I require in a woman is beauty and affection. I don’t care a whit about her brains. And I prefer blondes. There’s a chord within me that responds to the fingers of a golden-haired woman."
Göring took into his but a Valkyrie, a tall, great-busted, wide shouldered, eighteenth-century Swede. Burton wondered if she was a surrogate for Göring’s first wife, the sister-in-law of the Swedish explorer Count Von Rosen. Göring admitted that she not only looked like his Karin, but even had a voice similar to hers. He seemed to be very happy with her and she with him.
Then, one night, during the invariable early-morning rain, Burton was ripped from a deep sleep. He thought he had heard a scream, but all he could hear when he became fully awake was the explosion of thunder and the crack of nearby lightning. He closed his eyes, only to be jerked upright again. A woman had screamed in a nearby hut.
He jumped up, shoved aside the bamboo-slat door, and stuck his head outside. The cold rain hit him in the face. All was dark except for the mountains in the west, lit up by flashes of lightning. Then a bolt struck so close that he was deafe
ned and dazzled. However, he did catch a glimpse of two ghostly white figures just outside Göring’s hut. The German had his hands locked around the throat of his woman, who was holding onto his wrists and trying to push him away.
Burton ran out, slipped on the wet grass, and fell. Just as he arose, another flash showed the woman on her knees, bending backward, and Göring’s distorted face above her. At the same time, Collop, wrapping a towel around his waist, came out of s his hut. Burton got to his feet and, still silent, ran again. But Göring was gone. Burton knelt by Kayla, felt her heart, and could detect no beat. Another glare of lightning showed him her face, mouth hanging open, eyes bulging.
He rose and shouted, "Göring! Where are you’?" Something struck the back of his head. He fell on his face.
Stunned, he managed to get to his hands and knees, only to be knocked flat again by another heavy blow. Half-conscious, he nevertheless rolled over on his back and raised his legs and hands to defend himself. Lightning revealed Göring standing above him with a club in one hand. His face was a madman’s.
Darkness sliced off the lightning. Something white and blurred-leaped upon Göring out of the darkness. The two pale bodies went down onto the grass beside Burton and rolled over and over. They screeched like tomcats, and another flash of lightning showed them clawing at each other.
Burton staggered to his feet and lurched toward them but was knocked down by Collop’s body, hurled by Göring. Again Burton got up. Collop bounded to his feet and charged Göring. There was a loud crack, and Collop crumpled. Burton tried to run toward Göring. His legs refused to answer his demands; they took him off at an angle, away from his point of attack. Then another blast of light and noise showed Göring, as if caught in a photograph, suspended in the act of swinging the club at Burton.
Burton felt his arm go numb as it received the impact of the club. Now not only his legs but also his left arm disobeyed him. Nevertheless he balled his right hand and tried to swing at Göring. There was another crack; his ribs felt as if they had become unhinged and were driven inward into his lung. His breath was knocked out of him, and once again he was on the cold wet grass.
Something fell by his side. Despite his agony, he reached out for it. The club was in his hand; Göring must have dropped it. Shuddering with each painful breath, he got to one knee. Where was the madman? Two shadows danced and blurred, merged and half-separated. The hut! His eyes were crossed. He wondered if he had a concussion of the brain, then forgot it as he saw Göring dimly in the illumination of a distant streak of lightning. Two Görings, rather. One seemed to accompany the other; the one on the left had his feet on the ground; the right one was treading on air.
Both had their hands held high up into the rain, as if they were trying to wash them. And when the taro turned and came toward him, he understood that that was what they were trying to do. They were shouting in German (with a single voice); Take the blood off my hands! Oh, God, wash it off!"
Burton stumbled toward Göring, his club held high… Burton meant to knock him out, but Göring suddenly turned and ran away. Burton followed him as best he could, down the hill, up another one, and then out onto the flat plain. The rains stopped, the thunder and lightning died, and within five minutes the clouds, as always, had cleared away. The starlight gleamed on Göring’s white skin.
Like a phantom he flitted ahead of his pursuer, seemingly bent upon getting to The River. Burton kept after him, although he wondered why he was doing so. His legs had regained most of their strength, and his vision was no longer double. Presently, he found Göring. He was squatting by The River and staring intently at the star-fractured waves.
Burton said, "Are you all right now?" Göring was startled. He began to rise, then changed his mind. Groaning, he put his head down on his knees.
"I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t know why," he said dully. "Karla was telling me she was moving out in the morning, said she couldn’t sleep with all the noise I made with my nightmares. And I was acting strangely. I begged her to stay; I told her I loved her very much. I’d die if she deserted me. She said she was fond of me, had been, rather, but she didn’t love me. Suddenly, it seemed that if I wanted to keep her, I’d have to hill her. She ran screaming out of the hut. You know the rest."
"I intended to kill you," Burton said. "But I can see you’re no more responsible thaw a madman. The people here won’t accept that excuse, though. You know what they’ll do to you; hang you upside down by your ankles and let you hang until you die."
Göring cried, "I don’t understand it! What’s happening to me? Those nightmares! Believe me, Burton, if I’ve sinned, I’ve paid! But I can’t stop paying! My nights are hell, and soon my days will become hell, too! Then I’ll have only one way to get peace! I’ll kill myself! But it won’t do any good! I’ll wake up then hell again!"
"Stay away from the dreamgum," Burton said. "You’ll have to sweat it out. You can do it. You told me you overcame the morphine habit on Earth."
Göring stood up and faced Burton. That’s just it! I haven’t touched the gum since I came to this place!"
Burton said, "What? But I’ll swear…!"
"You assumed I was using the stuff because of the way I was acting! No, I have not had a bit of the gum! But it doesn’t make any difference!"
Despite his loathing of Göring, Burton felt pity. He said, "You’ve opened the Pandora of yourself, and it looks as if you’ll not be able to shut the lid. I don’t know how this is going to end, but I wouldn’t want to be in your mind. Not that you don’t deserve this."
Göring said, in a quiet and determined voice, "I’ll defeat them."
"You mean you’ll conquer yourself," Burton said. He turned to go but halted for a last word. "What are you going to do?"
Göring gestured -at The River. "Drown myself. I’ll get a fresh start. Maybe I’ll be better equipped the next place. And I certainly don’t want to be trussed up like a chicken in a butcher shop window."
"Au revoir, then," Burton said. "And good luck."
"Thank you. You know you’re not a bad sort. Just one word of advice."
"What’s that?"
"You’d better stay away from the dreamgum yourself. So far, you’ve been lucky. But one of these days, it’ll take hold of you as it did me. Your devils won’t be mine, but they’ll be just as monstrous and terrifying to you."
"Nonsense I I’ve nothing to hide from myself!" Burton laughed loudly. "I’ve chewed enough of the stuff to know." He walked away, but he was thinking of the warning. He had used the gum twenty-two times. Each time had made him swear never to touch the gum again.
On the way back to the hills, he looked behind him. The dim white figure of Göring was slowly sinking into the black-and silver waters of The River. Burton saluted, since he was not one to resist the dramatic gesture. Afterward, he forgot Göring. The pain in the back of his head, temporarily subdued, came back sharper than before. His knees turned to water and, only a few yards from his hut; he had to sit down.
He must have become unconscious then, or half-conscious since he had no memory of being dragged along on the grass. When his wits cleared, he found himself lying on a bamboo bed inside a hut.
It was dark with the only illumination the starlight filtering is through the tree branches outside the square of window. He turned his head and saw the shadowy and pale-white bulk of a man squatting by him. The man was holding a thin metal object before his eyes, the gleaming end of which was pointed at Burton.
25
As soon as Burton turned his head, the man put the device down. He spoke in English.
"It’s taken me a long time to find you, Richard Burton." Burton groped around on the floor for a weapon with his left hand, which was hidden from the man’s view. His fingers touched nothing but dirt. He said, "Now you’ve found me, you damn Ethical, what do you intend doing with me?"
The man shifted slightly and he chuckled. "Nothing." He paused, then said, "I am not one of Them." He laughed again when Bu
rton gasped. "That’s not quite true. I am with Them, but I am not of Them." He picked up the device, which he had been aiming at Burton.
"This tells me that you have a fractured skull and a concussion of the brain: You must be very tough, because you should be dead, judging from the extent of the injury. But you may pull out of it, if you take it easy. Unfortunately, you don’t have time to convalesce. The Others know you’re in this area, give or take thirty miles. In a day or so, They’ll have you pinpointed."
Burton tried to sit up and found that his bones had become soft as taffy in sunlight, and a bayonet was prying open the back of his skull. Groaning, he lay back down.
"Who are you and what’s your business?"
"I can’t tell you my name. If — much more likely when — They catch you, They’ll thread out your memory and run it off backward to the time you woke up in the pre-resurrection bubble. They won’t find out what made you wake before your time. But They will know about this conversation. They’ll even be able to see me. But only as you see me, a pale shadow with no features. They’ll hear my voice too, but They won’t recognize it. I’m using a transmuter.
"They will, however, be horrified. What they have slowly and reluctantly been suspecting will all of a sudden be revealed as the truth. They have a traitor in Their midst"
"I wish I knew what you were talking about," Burton said.
The man said, "I’ll tell you this much. You have been told a monstrous lie about the purpose of the Resurrection. What Spruce told you, and what that Ethical creation, the Church of the Second Chance, teaches — are lies! All lies! The truth is that you human beings have been given life again only to participate in a scientific experiment. The Ethicals — a misnomer if there ever was one have reshaped this planet into one Rivervalley, built the grailstones, and brought all of you back from the dead for one purpose. To record your history and customs. And, as a secondary matter, to observe your reactions to Resurrection and to the mixing of different peoples of different eras. That is all it is: a scientific project. And when you have served your purpose, back into the dust you go!"
To Your Scattered Bodies Go r-1 Page 20