Doomsday Morning M

by C. L. Moore

  Something strange was happening in my min. The old, violent clash inside me between the thing I had to remember and the thing I could not endure to know. Miranda, I thought. Miranda …

  Why did I hate to see Cressy in the role I had cast for Miranda in last night’s dream? Because Cressy and Miranda were women at opposite poles in my mind and I didn’t want them confused? Cressy wasn’t Miranda. Miranda was light and life, loyalty, security, love.

  Miranda?

  I felt a kind of thunderclap in my head.

  Somehow so many things fell neatly into pattern with a series of soundless clicks. Elaine Thomas and the blue ring unbroken on her hand, the thought and the smell of death, the dream of bombs ringing the theater in, Cressy imitating Miranda, and my mind rejecting their likeness …

  For an instant I saw the thing in my memory I tried so hard not to see, only let float to the surface when I was very drunk or very despairing, too despairing to care. I saw again, clear and vivid, Miranda lying dead in her bright kimono on the bright green hillside, her cheek upon the grass and her hair stirring in the breeze, the only thing about her that moved at all.

  And lying a little way beyond her I saw the man who had been her lover.

  The man I never knew. The man I had never guessed existed. Whose very name I had told myself did not matter. And it didn’t. Not as a name. But whoever he was, he was the man she died with and went away with into infinity, leaving me behind.

  Miranda was not loyalty and love and security.

  How strangely the mind works to deceive itself. How totally I had shut off that unbearable thought, walling it securely behind the memory of Miranda as I wanted to remember her. A Miranda who never existed. How fully I had convinced myself of the lie.

  Why did I see the truth now? Something had happened in my mind to let this much of reality come through. Some gate opening because of—what? And why did the desperate anxiety well higher and higher like a tide that was going to spill over the brim any minute and inundate me?

  Miranda was not loyalty and love.

  I needed to think that over in solitude and silence. As I sat on the hard metal bench, it seemed to be there was nothing around me but the blinding glare of what I just come to realize, the paralyzing silence of the pain. I had a thought to examine too private and too shattering to share the same enclosure with any other human being.

  I got up almost without knowing I was moving and went down quietly along the side of the stands, slipped out between the building and the girders into the still street beyond. I was thinking of the little park with the pool and the big, quiet trees.

  That was what I needed. The grassy place, the solitude.

  <" align="justify">Nobody seemed to be in the park tonight but me. I sat down on a bench beneath one of the big trees near the water. I leaned my back to the trunk and looked at the stars shining in the faintly troubled pool. I let my mind remember.

  What was the real Miranda? Not the goddess I had made her into. Only a woman of beauty and talent and no faith. A woman who found me less than she wanted and who went elsewhere for the love I had not succeeded in giving her. No goddess. No talisman whose faith and love were the foundation of my success. She gave me neither faith nor love. She was a woman who must have smiled just as easily and invitingly at any likely man as Cressy had smiled at me.

  I leaned my back against the tree. There was an immense stillness around me and through me. Far off I heard the voices from the stage, the laughter and response of the audience. In the dark street an occasional car went by. Over me the leaves rustled. But the stillness in my mind hushed every other sound. I could not think or feel. Not in that long silence.

  Then feeling came back. I didn’t want it. I couldn’t face it. But I couldn’t evade it, either. I felt the impact of that full knowledge of what Miranda was smash into me with paralyzing clearness. I tried to stand up, but my legs wouldn’t hold me. For the first time physical reaction hit me like a hammer All the small muscles of my shoulders shivered, and the muscles at the inside of my thighs shook until I could hardly stand. I dropped back to the bench and threw my arm around the tree trunk to keep the world from tilting.

  I could see so clearly the bright colors of Miranda’s kimono on the green eastern grass. The beautiful dreamer who would never wake again. This final loss was worse than the first shock of her dying, because until now I had kept so much of her with me, part of me, very precious and very safe in my mind. And gone now out of reach, out of time.

  There let your sweetheart lie, untrue forever. Who said it? Never mind. Never mind. The tree was rough against my cheek. I hugged the hard trunk to keep my arm from trembling and felt the tears slip down my face between me and the insensate bark. The night was infinitely still.

  Without opening my eyes I could feel its quiet presence. I heard the water making its faint, troubled sounds upon the shore. I heard the leaves heaving softly above me. I thought I could feel the tremor of their motion transmitting downward through the solid trunk I clung to, tugging at the deep roots spread out and clenched solidly far underground. The tree had stood here a long time, withstanding the shocks of all its lifetime. As I had to withstand the shocks of mine.

  I felt the life of the tree against me. I felt the water lapping on the shore and the motion transmitting from molecule to molecule of the ground that upheld us both. The water and the wind, the living tree, the earth and I were all knit together in a single unit that breathed and was one.

  And I wasn’t alone. Miranda wasn’t lost. Nothing is lost. Miranda was no goddess, but neither had she betrayed me—not in any way that mattered now. She did what she had to do. There is a term set on marriage, and beyond that I had no claim on her or she on me. I had to let her go.

  I had been trying all this while to hold her closer in death than I had ever been able to hold her in life. But now I could accept what she was and wasn’t and love her, and let her go.

  I wasn’t alone. I was the tree and the pool, the stars shining in the water, the wind in the dark. And Miranda was with me, everywhere and nowhere, a part of the tree and the earth and me. Now may all clouds … of sorrow depart … beautiful dreamer, wake unto me …

  It was all right now. She could wake or sleep. I didn’t need her any more. I was myself again.

  After a while I stood up and wiped the smeared dirt from my face where I and the tree had shared that strange communion. Everything was very calm and clear now. Miranda had been lovely and corrupt, as Comus was beautiful and strong and corrupt. I couldn’t have her back. I didn’t want her back now. Not as she had really been. Not any more than she would want a return to me. All those memories, all that life, rich and lustrous and unstable, were a long way off now. A part of Comus. I had a sudden flash of memory in which the renegade with the swinging necklaces moved before me as clear as life, the glittering jewels, the human ears—Comus, beautiful and terrible, too dangerous to live.

  I knew where I stood now. I had sorted things out. I knew what I valued and wanted, and what the cost would be, and the risk. But I didn’t care any more.

  When I went out of that dark garden into the lights again I knew I was a rebel. And I knew the work I had to do.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  I STOOD FOR A moment outside the grandstands listening to the smooth onward flow of the play, watching through the slatted horizontals of the seats the dark lattices made by scores of feet and legs. I was waiting for one of the big laughs. The play was building toward it. At the right moment I slid under the girders and began to work my way toward Elaine.

  My timing was good. The wave of laughter broke over the whole audience just as I stooped over Elaine’s shoulder and whispered in her ear. A gaunt man beside heir turned to look coldly at me.

  “There’s no room here,” he said in a loud whisper, his glance registering my ripped shirt and the stubble on my face.

  I said, “I’m just staying a minute.”

  Elaine was looking up at me in quick surprise. Sh
e whispered, “I didn’t think—why aren’t you in the play? I expected——”

  I said, “I’ll tell you later. Are you alone here?”

  She nodded and moved over a little on the bench, making room for me. I shook my head at her. “No, I want you to come with 0em">

  She gave me another quick look. “Not now. Wait till it’s over.”

  “There isn’t time,” I said. “Wait for the next laugh. Then get out!”

  After a moment she nodded, her eyes still fixed questioningly on mine. I waited, listening to the dialogue. “Now!” I said.

  Elaine rose quietly just as the laughter began to swell. Down on stage I saw Polly glance up at the unexpected center of activity here in the audience, and I think in spite of the lights she knew me, but after the briefest little break in her lines she went on smoothly. I followed Elaine down the narrow aisle at the end of the benches and out between the girders and the wall. The back of my neck was tingling. I thought, Someone will stop us. Someone will have to stop us. And then I thought chillingly. Maybe they don’t need to. Maybe by now we’re marked.

  Actually no one seemed to notice our going.

  Once outside in the quiet street, Elaine turned to me with bright, questioning eyes. “What happened to you, Rohan?” she asked in a low voice. “What are you doing here? I thought you were with the players.”

  I rubbed my stubbled chin. “A lot’s been happening since I saw you last. Never mind now.” I wondered briefly how much she really knew. I had turned in her friend to the Comus forces and by that act brought the theater to Carson City, and the trap that came with it. But it was too late now to think about that.

  “Stand still a minute,” I said. “Listen to the play.”

  Puzzled, she obeyed. After a moment I said, “Now. Are you thinking of the Anti-Com?”

  The flash of astonishment in her face as she turned to me told me the answer before she said, “But how did you know? How could——”

  “I’ll tell you that later, too,” I said. “If there’s time. The theater’s a trap. A lie detector—hunting the Anti-Com.”

  In the silence a burst of laughter rose again from over the bleachers. Elaine looked up at me, her eyes anxious and searching.

  “Are you sure? How could it be?” She didn’t want to believe me. I saw the life and color draining out of her face as she stared, trying not to believe and yet, in spite of herself, beginning to realize I was right. “How do you know?” she asked in a tight whisper.

  I shook my head at her. “It’s a long story. If you can do anything to counteract the trap you’d better do it fast. Or do you need to? Is anybody in the audience who knows anything?”

  She said, “Oh God!” in a stunned whisper.

  “Shall I break up the play?” I asked impatiently. “I could do it, but——”

  Suddenly and violently she spun away from me without a word and began to run. I hesitated a moment, watching her go. Then I started after her, trying to make no more sound of running on the street than she did. She gave me one glance over her shoulder and then ran on, paying no attention.

  I was panting before she stopped at a low two-story office building and fumbled a key out of her handbag. She got the door open and slid inside in one motion, vanishing into the dark. I went after her. She called breathlessly, “Shut the door!”

  I heard the lock click as I closed it. A dim light showed stairs leading up and Elaine already at the top and unlocking another door. I caught up with her in time to see her cross the office room inside, push aside a picture on the wall, and press two buttons set flush with the plaster under it. She stood there leaning her head against the wall, her eyes closed, her fingers on the buttons. She was breathing through her mouth and trying to listen.

  I heard the distant shriek of the town siren beginning low and then wailing to full volume. It rose and faded and fell, and rose again in a pattern of sound like a code. Over and over it wailed out its staccato messages to the town and the quiet countryside. I imagined the whole of Carson City sitting stunned for the first few wails, not understanding. I imagined men and women in farms far out in the dark, people on the roads, birds and animals waking from sleep, all of them listening. And I had a moment’s wild thought that Carson City was like a sinking ship in mid-Atlantic shrieking its message of disaster as it went slowly down in the black waters.

  Elaine sighed and opened her eyes, stepped back. The picture swung into place again, covering the buttons. She looked at me, still pale but calmer now. The wailing siren died away.

  “The riot call?” I asked.

  She smiled faintly. “H and C in Morse—for Hey, Charley,” she told me. “That’s the signal. Listen.”

  Even from here we could hear the low, rising murmur of voices from the streets and houses, people calling to each other, doors opening, feet running.

  “It means break up,” Elaine said. “Stop what you’re doing, get to your headquarters. Drop everything and move! By now your play’s losing its audience—I hope. It means——”

  Now it was my turn to say, “Listen!” She was quiet. We both heard the staccato sound of gunfire from the way we had come. I said grimly, “Maybe some of the audience isn’t leaving so fast. What do you think?”

  She started for the door. Then she seemed to take a tangible grip on her own emotions, and she turned back deliberately, pulled out a chair from one of the desks and sat down in itclosing her eyes again for a moment. Then she looked up at me, the bright black gaze very questioning, very disturbed.

  “Sit down, Rohan,” she said. “We’ve got to get things clear. What is it you know?”

  I was glad of a chance to sit. I’d been through a lot in the past hour. I could feel random nerves and muscles jumping when I tired to relax, and my head ached savagely. I drew a deep breath.

  “It may take a while,” I said.

  She nodded. “We’ve got about ten minutes. Let’s have it.”

  I said, “About a week ago I was working out a Cropper contract——” Here I paused, marveling at myself. A week ago? It seemed like years. “Comus picked me up,” I said. “Ted Nye and I used to be Mends when I was on Broadway. He needed an actor. He offered me the job. Before he offered it he had me run through the usual brain searching to make sure I wasn’t a subversive. I mentioned this to you when we first met, back in San Andreas. Remember?”

  She nodded, watching me. “You saw my brother in New York at the psycho-search center.”

  “You look a lot alike.” I hesitated. “Is he—all right? I’m not sure how much I remember, but——”

  “You remember,” she told me somberly. “Joe—died quite suddenly just a week ago. Some kind of overdose, the newscast said.” Her mouth was grim.

  I said in a quiet voice, “He knew it was coming. He sent you his love—I think. And a message about the trap the traveling theaters are—I think.” I rubbed my eyes. “I was drugged. They pump you full of stuff in those brain-searching sessions. That night—well, I thought I had a dream. All this while it’s been bothering me—the message your brother sent, the things he told me. In the dream they were so garbled they didn’t make sense. I began to realize it couldn’t have been a dream after a while. But I still didn’t understand.” I stopped and thought in silence about the dark garden and the still waters and the new knowledge about myself I had wrestled with tonight.

  I said, “I couldn’t remember until—a little while ago. I couldn’t. There was something else that kept getting in the way. Something about—myself and some things that happened a long time ago.”

  I paused, thinking. Remembering the letters of fire I couldn’t read for so long. I could guess now what happened back there in New York as that other Dr. Thomas ran off the routine personality checking which Nye had ordered for me. Whatever it was he saw in the pattern of my reactions had made him believe I’d carry a message for him to the rebels in California. And he was right. Essentially I was a rebel even then, born to rebel, living in rebellion against the wor
ld.

  But what he had told me was frightening. In essence he must have said, “I’m working with a rebel organization that’s going to destroy Comus with the Anti-Com. I’ve just discovered the traveling theaters are a lie-detector trap to spot rebels who know too much. You’ve got to carry the warning. You’ve got to help.”

  But I’d protested. I wasn’t ready to take up arms against a sea of troubles, his or mine or anybody’s. And then he’d said—what? That I didn’t need to remember what he’d told me, that I would when the time came—post-hypnotic suggestion? Something like that, I felt pretty sure. He’d been right about picking me out—not that he probably had much choice. His pursuers may well have been right at his heels or he wouldn’t have taken such chances with such a broken reed as Howard Rohan.

  It had taken me a long time to come round to his way of thinking. I’d had to clear away all that murk of confusion about Miranda before I knew what it was I really wanted, which side I was really on. It took me a long time to see the truth. Maybe too long.

  Elaine said, “What was the message exactly, Rohan? Can you remember?”

  I shut my eyes and tried. “Your brother wanted me to join the Swann Players because they’d been assigned to the area where you and Harris were, and the——” I paused, looking at her. “The Anti-Com is here too, isn’t it? In Carson City? I know Nye’s looking for it here.”

  She gave me an expressionless glance. “No, it isn’t here. Go on.”

  I shrugged. “He told me the Anti-Com would destroy Comus—make it commit suicide was the way he put it. He wanted to warn you about the traveling theaters. There wasn’t any time to send a message directly to you and he had to take a chance on me.” I grinned faintly, seeing again the unreadable letters of fire circling before me—unreadable until now. “It was a long chance,” I said.