"_Go back!_" I heard the machine say through its projected angel, for Henry had entered the cave.
"My God!" I heard him say. "Who's that?"
"Get Doc!" I said. "Hurry! I'll explain later. It's a matter of life! Climb back to where your communicator will work, and tell him it's Dawson's Plague--a bad local bug! Hurry!"
"I'm on my way," he said and was.
"There _is_ a doctor?" she asked.
"Yes. Only about two hours away. Don't worry....I still don't see how anyone could have gotten you up here to the top of this mountain, let alone a load of machines."
"We're on the big mountain--the forty-miler?"
"Yes."
"How did _you_ get up?" she asked.
"I climbed it."
"You really climbed Purgatorio? On the outside?"
"Purgatorio? That's what you call it? Yes, I climbed it, that way."
"We didn't think it could be done."
"How else might one arrive at its top?"
"It's hollow inside," she said. "There are great caves and massive passages. It's easy to fly up the inside on a pressurized jut car. In fact, it was an amusement ride. Two and a half dollars per person. An hour and a half each way. A dollar to rent a pressurized suit and take an hour's walk around the top. Nice way to spend an afternoon. Beautiful view...?" She gasped deeply.
"I don't feel so good," she said. "Have you any water?"
"Yes," I said, and I gave her all I had.
As she sipped it, I prayed that Doc had the necessary serum or else would be able to send her back to ice and sleep until it could be gotten. I prayed that he would make good time, for two hours seemed long when measured against her thirst and the red of her flesh.
"My fever is coming again," she said. "Talk to me, Whitey, please....Tell me things. Keep me with you till he comes. I don't want my mind to turn back upon what has happened...."
"What would you like me to tell you about, Linda?"
"Tell me why you did it. Tell me what it was like, to climb a mountain like this one. Why?"
I turned my mind back upon what had happened.
"There is a certain madness involved," I said, "a certain envy of great and powerful natural forces, that some men have. Each mountain is a deity, you know. Each is an immortal power. If you make sacrifices upon its slopes, a mountain may grant you a certain grace, and for a time you will share this power. Perhaps that is why they call me...."
Her hand rested in mine. I hoped that through it whatever power I might contain would hold all of her with me for as long as ever possible.
"I remember the first time that I saw Purgatory, Linda," I told her. "I looked at it and I was sick. I wondered, where did it lead...?"
(Stars.
Oh let there be.
This once to end with.
Please.)
"Stars?"
This Moment of the Storm
Back on Earth, my old philosophy prof--possibly because he'd misplaced his lecture notes--came into the classroom one day and scrutinized his sixteen victims for the space of half a minute. Satisfied then, that a sufficiently profound tone had been established, he asked:
"What is a man?"
He had known exactly what he was doing. He'd had an hour and a half to kill, and eleven of the sixteen were coeds (nine of them in liberal arts, and the other two stuck with an Area Requirement).
One of the other two, who was in the pre-med program, proceeded to provide a strict biological classification.
The prof (McNitt was his name, I suddenly recall) nodded then, and asked:
"Is that all?"
And there was his hour and a half.
I learned that Man is a Reasoning Animal, Man is the One Who Laughs, Man is greater than beasts but less than angels, Man is the one who watches himself watching himself doing things he knows are absurd (this from a Comparative Lit gal), Man is the culture-transmitting animal, Man is the spirit which aspires, affirms, loves, the one who uses tools, buries his dead, devises religions, and the one who tries to define himself. (That last from Paul Schwartz, my roommate--which I thought pretty good, on the spur of the moment. Wonder whatever became of Paul?)
Anyhow, to most of these I say "perhaps" or "partly, but--" or just plain "crap!" I still think mine was the best, because I had a chance to try it out, on Tierra del Cygnus, Land of the Swan...
I'd said, "Man is the sum total of everything he has done, wishes to do or not to do, and wishes he hadn't done, or hadn't."
Stop and think about it for a minute. It's purposely as general as the others, but it's got room in it for the biology and the laughing and the aspiring, as well as the culture-transmitting, the love, and the room full of mirrors, and the defining. I even left the door open for religion, you'll note. But it's limiting, too. Ever met an oyster to whom the final phrases apply?
Tierra del Cygnus, Land of the Swan--delightful name.
Delightful place too, for quite awhile...
It was there that I saw Man's definitions, one by one, wiped from off the big blackboard, until only mine was left.
...My radio had been playing more static than usual. That's all.
For several hours there was no other indication of what was to come.
My hundred-thirty eyes had watched Betty all morning, on that clear, cool spring day with the sun pouring down its honey and lightning upon the amber fields, flowing through the streets, invading western store-fronts, drying curbstones, and washing the olive and umber buds that speared the skin of the trees there by the roadway; and the light that wrung the blue from the flag before Town Hall made orange mirrors out of windows, chased purple and violet patches across the shoulders of Saint Stephen's Range, some thirty miles distant, and came down upon the forest at its feet like some supernatural madman with a million buckets of paint--each of a different shade of green, yellow, orange, blue and red--to daub with miles-wide brushes at its heaving sea of growth.
Mornings the sky is cobalt, midday is turquoise, and sunset is emeralds and rubies, hard and flashing. It was halfway between cobalt and seamist at 1100 hours, when I watched Betty with my hundred-thirty eyes and saw nothing to indicate what was about to be. There was only that persistent piece of static, accompanying the piano and strings within my portable.
It's funny how the mind personifies, engenders. Ships are always women: You say, "She's a good old tub," or, "She's a fast, tough number, this one," slapping a bulwark and feeling the aura of femininity that clings to the vessel's curves; or, conversely, "He's a bastard to start, that Sam!" as you kick the auxiliary engine to an inland transport-vehicle; and hurricanes are always women, and moons, and seas. Cities, though, are different. Generally, they're neuter. Nobody calls New York or San Francisco "he" or "she". Usually, cities are just "it".
Sometimes, however, they do come to take on the attributes of sex. Usually, this is in the case of small cities near to the Mediterranean, back on Earth. Perhaps this is because of the sex-ridden nouns of the languages which prevail in that vicinity, in which case it tells us more about the inhabitants than it does about the habitations. But I feel that it goes deeper than that.
Betty was Beta Station for less than ten years. After two decades she was Betty officially, by act of Town Council. Why? Well, I felt at the time (ninety-some years ago), and still feel, that it was because she was what she was--a place of rest and repair, of surface-cooked meals and of new voices, new faces, of landscapes, weather, and natural light again, after that long haul through the big night, with its casting away of so much. She is not home, she is seldom destination, but she is like unto both. When you come upon light and warmth and music after darkness and cold and silence, it is Woman. The oldtime Mediterranean sailor must have felt it when he first spied port at the end of a voyage. _I_ felt it when I first saw Beta Station-Betty-and the second time I saw her, also.
I am her Hell Cop.
...When six or seven of my hundred-thirty eyes flickered, then saw again, and the music was sud
denly washed away by a wave of static, it was then that I began to feel uneasy.
I called Weather Central for a report, and the recorded girlvoice told me that seasonal rains were expected in the afternoon or early evening. I hung up and switched an eye from ventral to dorsal-vision.
Not a cloud. Not a ripple. Only a formation of green-winged ski-toads, heading north, crossed the field of the lens.
I switched it back, and I watched the traffic flow, slowly, and without congestion, along Betty's prim, well-tended streets. Three men were leaving the bank and two more were entering. I recognized the three who were leaving, and in my mind I waved as I passed by. All was still at the post office, and patterns of normal activity lay upon the steel mills, the stockyard, the plast-synth plants, the airport, the spacer pads, and the surfaces of all the shopping complexes; vehicles came and went at the Inland Transport-Vehicle garages, crawling from the rainbow forest and the mountains beyond like dark slugs, leaving tread-trails to mark their comings and goings through wilderness; and the fields of the countryside were still yellow and brown, with occasional patches of green and pink; the country houses, mainly simple A-frame affairs, were chisel blade, spike-tooth, spire and steeple, each with a big lightning rod, and dipped in many colors and scooped up in the cups of my seeing and dumped out again, as I sent my eyes on their rounds and tended my gallery of one hundred-thirty changing pictures, on the big wall of the Trouble Center, there atop the Watch Tower of Town Hall.
The static came and went until I had to shut off the radio. Fragments of music are worse than no music at all.
My eyes, coasting weightless along magnetic lines, began to blink.
I knew then that we were in for something.
I sent an eye scurrying off toward Saint Stephen's at full speed, which meant a wait of about twenty minutes until it topped the range. Another, I sent straight up, skywards, which meant perhaps ten minutes for a long shot of the same scene. Then I put the auto-scan in full charge of operations and went downstairs for a cup of coffee.
I entered the Mayor's outer office, winked at Lottie, the receptionist, and glanced at the inner door.
"Mayor in?" I asked.
I got an occasional smile from Lottie, a slightly heavy, but well-rounded girl of indeterminate age and intermittent acne, but this wasn't one of the occasions.
"Yes," she said, returning to the papers on her desk.
"Alone?"
She nodded, and her earrings danced. Dark eyes and dark complexion, she could have been kind of sharp, if only she'd fix her hair and use more makeup. Well...
I crossed to the door and knocked.
"Who?" asked the Mayor.
"Me," I said, opening it, "Godfrey Justin Holmes--`God' for short. I want someone to drink coffee with, and you're elected."
She turned in her swivel chair, away from the window she had been studying, and her blonde-hair-white-hair-fused, short and parted in the middle, gave a little stir as she turned--like a sunshot snowdrift struck by sudden winds.
She smiled and said, "I'm busy."
`Eyes green, chin small, cute little ears--I love them all'--from an anonymous Valentine I'd sent her two months previous, and true.
"...But not too busy to have coffee with God," she stated. "Have a throne, and I'll make us some instant."
I did, and she did.
While she was doing it, I leaned back, lit a cigarette I'd borrowed from her canister, and remarked, "Looks like rain."
"Uh-huh," she said.
"Not just making conversation," I told her. "There's a bad storm brewing somewhere--over Saint Stephen's, I think. I'll know real soon."
"Yes grandfather," she said, bringing me my coffee. "You old timers with all your aches and pains are often better than Weather Central, it's an established fact. I won't argue."
She smiled, frowned, then smiled again.
I set my cup on the edge of her desk.
"Just wait and see," I said. "If it makes it over the mountains, it'll be a nasty high-voltage job. It's already jazzing up reception."
Big-bowed white blouse, and black skirt around a well-kept figure. She'd be forty in the fall, but she'd never completely tamed her facial reflexes--which was most engaging, so far as I was concerned. Spontaneity of expression so often vanishes so soon. I could see the sort of child she'd been by looking at her, listening to her now. The thought of being forty was bothering her again, too, I could tell. She always kids me about age when age is bothering her.
See, I'm around thirty-five, actually, which makes me her junior by a bit, but she'd heard her grandfather speak of me when she was a kid, before I came back again this last time. I'd filled out the balance of his two-year term, back when Betty-Beta's first mayor, Wyeth, had died after two months in office. I was born about five hundred ninety-seven years ago, on Earth, but I spent about five hundred sixty-two of those years sleeping, during my long jaunts between the stars. I've made a few more trips than a few others; consequently, I am an anachronism. I am really, of course, only as old as I look--but still, people always seem to feel that I've cheated somehow, especially women in their middle years. Sometimes it is most disconcerting...
"Eleanor," said I, "your term will be up in November. Are you still thinking of running again?"
She took off her narrow, elegantly-trimmed glasses and brushed her eyelids with thumb and forefinger. Then she took a sip of coffee.
"I haven't made up my mind."
"I ask not for press-release purposes," I said, "but for my own."
"Really, I haven't decided," she told me. "I don't know..."
"Okay, just checking. Let me know if you do."
I drank some coffee.
After a time, she said, "Dinner Saturday? As usual?"
"Yes, good."
"I'll tell you then."
"Fine--capital."
As she looked down into her coffee, I saw a little girl staring into a pool, waiting for it to clear, to see her reflection or to see the bottom of the pool, or perhaps both.
She smiled at whatever it was she finally saw.
"A bad storm?" she asked me.
"Yep. Feel it in my bones."
"Tell it to go away?"
"Tried. Don't think it will, though."
"Better batten some hatches, then."
"It wouldn't hurt and it might help."
"The weather satellite will be overhead in another half hour. You'll have something sooner?"
"Think so. Probably any minute."
I finished my coffee, washed out the cup.
"Let me know right away what it is."
"Check. Thanks for the coffee."
Lottie was still working and did not look up as I passed.
Upstairs again, my highest eye was now high enough. I stood it on its tail and collected a view of the distance: Fleecy mobs of clouds boiled and frothed on the other side of Saint Stephen's. The mountain range seemed a breakwall, a dam, a rocky shoreline. Beyond it, the waters were troubled.
My other eye was almost in position. I waited the space of half a cigarette, then it delivered me a sight:
Gray, and wet and impenetrable, a curtain across the countryside, that's what I saw.
...And advancing.
I called Eleanor.
"It's gonna rain, chillun," I said.
"Worth some sandbags?"
"Possibly."
"Better be ready then. Okay. Thanks."
I returned to my watching.
Tierra del Cygnus, Land of the Swan--delightful name. It refers to both the planet and its sole continent.
How to describe the world, like quick? Well, roughly Earth-size; actually, a bit smaller, and more watery. --As for the main landmass, first hold a mirror up to South America, to get the big bump from the right side over to the left, then rotate it ninety degrees in a counter-clockwise direction and push it up into the northern hemisphere. Got that? Good. Now grab it by the tail and pull. Stretch it another six or seven hundred miles, slimming dow
n the middle as you do, and let the last five or six hundred fall across the equator. There you have Cygnus, its big gulf partly in the tropics, partly not. Just for the sake of thoroughness, while you're about it, break Australia into eight pieces and drop them after the first eight letters in the Greek alphabet. Put a big scoop of vanilla at each pole, and don't forget to tilt the globe about eighteen degrees before you leave. Thanks.
I recalled my wandering eyes, and I kept a few of the others turned toward Saint Stephen's until the cloudbanks breasted the range about an hour later. By then, though, the weather satellite had passed over and picked the thing up also. It reported quite an extensive cloud cover on the other side. The storm had sprung up quickly, as they often do here on Cygnus. Often, too, they disperse just as quickly, after an hour or so of heaven's artillery. But then there are the bad ones--sometimes lingering and lingering, and bearing more thunderbolts in their quivers than any Earth storm.
Betty's position, too, is occasionally precarious, though its advantages, in general, offset its liabilities. We are located on the gulf, about twenty miles inland, and are approximately three miles removed (in the main) from a major river, the Noble; part of Betty does extend down to its banks, but this is a smaller part. We are almost a strip city, falling mainly into an area some seven miles in length and two miles wide, stretching inland, east from the river, and running roughly parallel to the distant seacoast. Around eighty percent of the 100,000 population is concentrated about the business district, five miles in from the river.
We are not the lowest land about, but we are far from being the highest. We are certainly the most level in the area. This latter feature, as well as our nearness to the equator, was a deciding factor in the establishment of Beta Station. Some other things were our proximity both to the ocean and to a large river. There are nine other cities on the continent, all of them younger and smaller, and three of them located upriver from us. We are the potential capital of a potential country.
The Doors of His Face, The Lamps of His Mouth and Other Stories Page 17