Up the Walls of the World

by James Tiptree Jr.

  “Who is he, Noah?”

  “Represents D.O.D., I believe. Some intelligence body interested in our effort. I never saw him before. Well, now we don’t have to worry.”

  Dann turns to leave, turns back. “Noah… If I might suggest something. I’d keep that fellow as far out of sight as possible.”

  Noah gives him an unexpectedly alert look and bobs his head.

  Now why the devil did I do that, Dann asks himself, going out into the pleasant afternoon. And why do I feel traitorous; it was only good sense. The man upsets them. But something inside him acknowledges his real reason. Let nothing wake me up. Let this whole ridiculous business just go on being ridiculous, unreal, cool.

  Just as he nears the pool it happens.

  Dann has never had a “psychic” experience. It doesn’t occur to him that he’s having one now. Suddenly, the lawn, woods, barracks are invaded—transformed by a great wave of soundless motion, as if a hurricane was somehow blowing in place. He glimpses an immense landscape of wind-torn clouds while a light unlike anything he knows sweeps round him, roaring silently—

  —And is gone.

  He staggers in place, grasping something which turns out to be the back of a metal chair. Has he had a vascular-cerebral accident?

  Dazed, he stares around, automatically checking limb and facial function. Everything nominal except his heart rate, which is about one-twenty.

  As his gaze focusses he realizes that the women by the pool are in an agitated huddle. Ted Yost and Rick are running toward them.

  “Doctor Dann! Doctor Dann!”

  He walks to them, his heart slowing. What in God’s name was it?

  “Doctor Dann!” Winona cries. “Did you feel it too?”

  “Yes, I felt… something. I have no idea what in the world it was.”

  “It wasn’t in this world.” Val rubs her eyes.

  “That was the sea,” Ted Yost tells them. “It was a great storm at sea, we picked it out of somebody’s mind.”

  “I tell you this is a shitty place,” Frodo says murderously.

  “I don’t know…” Winona looks around puzzledly. “Was it bad? I felt something like Hello. Didn’t you get it?”

  Rick says nothing. His eyes are sullen again. Not sullen, Dann corrects himself, pained. Has Rick woken up? Don’t be idiotic.

  “The wind that blows between the worlds cut through him like a knife,” Dann finds himself saying unexpectedly. “Kipling. You wouldn’t know it,” he grins at Frodo, getting some of his own back.

  Beside them the door of the women’s barracks opens and Margaret Omali steps out.

  “Margaret, did you feel that too?” Winona calls up at her.

  “Feel what?” She has a magazine in her hand, Dann sees.

  “Like a big wind, in our heads,” Valerie says.

  “That’s your department, not mine,” Margaret says without expression. She walks down the steps and heads for the test barracks, as if she had intended to do that all along.

  “I felt that, what you call it.” Costakis bustles up to them. “So did the fellas. They’re taking off.”

  In fact, the two Cuban workmen are hustling out to their truck, followed by Noah’s remonstrations. As they get in the truck one of them makes a hand sign at the group by the pool.

  “They’re giving us the evil eye!” Frodo laughs.

  “I tell you,” mutters Costakis obscurely. The truck accelerates away.

  Winona giggles. “Say, do you think everybody in this camp felt it? Maybe they think we did it to them! Wouldn’t that be funny?”

  Costakis looks up at her. “That could be just exactly right,” he says in his pinched voice. “Only you’re wrong, Missus. It wouldn’t be funny. It wouldn’t be funny at all. Not here.”

  Chapter 7

  DARK AND ENORMOUS, THE SOLITARY ONE HAS FOUND DEADLY DIVERSION IN THE VOID.

  IT HAS BEEN TURNING A PORTION OF ITS PAIN-RIDDEN ATTENTION TO SOME EMANATIONS WHICH TRACE TO A CLOT OF MATTER IN THE TRAIN OF A SMALL BLUE STAR. AS USUAL, THE WEAKNESS OF THE RECEPTION IRRITATES. WHY WILL THIS NOT COME STRONGER AND MORE CLEAR?

  A MISTY IDEA CONDENSES INTO IMPULSE: WHAT IF I EXPERIMENT? WHAT IF I USE MY TIME-POWERS— ALONE?

  THE THOUGHT IS HORRIFYING, SUPREMELY PROHIBITED. AGITATED, THE VAST ENTITY SWIRLS AWAY, A NOISY VACUUM SWEEPING OUT CHAOS.

  BUT THE WICKED THOUGHT RECURS. AND WITH IT COMES ANOTHER: HOW CAN ILLEGALITY HAVE MEANING NOW? AM I NOT MYSELF THE ULTIMATE ILLEGALITY? WHY SHOULD I NOT EXECUTE-ANY-THING?

  WHY NOT?

  ANOTHER OF THE EMANATING SPECKS IS NEAR IT NOW, COUPLED TO TWIN YELLOW SUNS WHOSE ORBITS ARE A FRACTION OF ITS OWN LENGTH. THEY WILL SERVE. WITH A SLOW SHUDDER OF THE WHOLE HUGE BEING, TIME-POWER IS MARSHALED AND FOCUSSED ON THE FIERY LITTLE ORBS. OFTEN THIS MANEUVER HAS BEEN PERFORMED IN CONCERT OF THE PLAN: NEVER BEFORE ALONE. SO BE IT.

  THE TARGETS GO THROUGH THEIR FAMILIAR CHANGES, BRIGHTENING, THEN REDDENING SUDDENLY AS THEY EXPAND TO DISRUPTION. AT THE SAME TIME, THE TINY OUTPUT FROM THE MATTER IN THE SYSTEM AMPLIFIES SATISFYINGLY. LOUDER, CLEARER—IT RISES TO PAROXYSMAL STRENGTH, TREMBLING ON THE BRINKOFSOMECOMPREHENSI-BILITY. JUST AS—SOMETHING—CAN ALMOST BE RECOGNIZED, THEY SUDDENLY CEASE.

  TRY AGAIN. ANOTHER SIMILAR SMALL SINGLE SYSTEM IS EMITTING NEARBY. THE TIME-THRUST IS FOCUSSED, ENERGIZED. THIS PRIMARY DOES NOT COMPLETELY DISSIPATE: IT GOES TO A COLLAPSED, POINTLIKE EXISTENCE. BUT AGAIN THE TINY OUTPUT RISES TANTALIZINGLY TOWARD RECOGNITION BEFORE IT TOO ABRUPTLY CUTS OUT.

  THE IMMENSE SENTIENCE DRIFTS AWAY, ITS PAIN MOMENTARILY IN ABEYANCE FROM THE EFFORT TO COMPREHEND THIS NEW EXPERIENCE. WHY WOULDN’T THE SIGNAL HOLD LONG ENOUGH FOR RECEPTION? AT THEIR STRONGEST, THE SIGNALS WERE STILL MINUTE… BUT SOMEHOW MEANINGFUL. AND THE QUALITY OF ACCEPTING THIS NEW LITTLE INPUT SEEMS TO ANSWER TO SOME NAMELESS NEED WITHIN.

  TO CONFIRM, IT LOCATES ANOTHER EMISSION-POINT AMONG THE WISPS OF MATTER AROUND AN INSIGNIFICANT SUN, AND APPLIES POWER AGAIN, THIS TIME IN REVERSE MODE. ANOTHER SUCCESS: THE FIERY POINT EXPANDS, DISSOCIATES TO NEAR-VOID. AND AS IT DOES SO, THE SMALL SIGNALS INCREASE SPASMODICALLY BEFORE THEY CUT OFF FOREVER.

  THE HUGE, MALEFICENT PRESENCE SAILS AWAY, SLOWLY CONSIDERING THIS NEW ASPECT OF EXISTENCE. SOME MEANING IS IMPLIED HERE, ALMOST TO BE GRASPED. BUT WHY DO THEY STOP SO SOON? IS IT POSSIBLE THAT THERE IS SOME OTHER ACTION TO BE EXECUTED?

  FOR THE FIRST TIME THE NEBULOUS NOTION STIRS: COULD SOME SUBPROGRAM BE INCOMPLETE? IS THE DIMNESS OF PERCEPTION DUE, NOT TO THE OUTPUT, BUT TO SOME INTERNAL CONDITION OF DEFICIT? EVIL IS PRESENT, AND CAUSES PAINFUL SELF-LOATHING. BUT PERHAPS THERE IS MORE THAN SIMPLE WICKEDNESS: PERHAPS THERE IS CONNECTION TO THAT CENTER OF ITS NUCLEUS WHICH IS FELT AS THE MOST PRIVATE SOURCE OF SHAME AND WRONG. WHY ARE THESE TINY OUTPUTS SO INTIMATELY SIGNIFICANT?

  IT CANNOT UNDERSTAND; THE HUGE BLACK IMMATERIALITY THAT IS NOT A BRAIN FLOATS QUIESCENT AMONG THE LITTLE SUNS, STRIVING FOR THOUGHT.

  IT IS THEN THAT THE CURIOUS DISTRACTION OCCURS.

  FOR SOME TIME THE ABERRANT SENSORS HAVE BEEN REGISTERING AN UNUSUAL EMISSION ON THE STRANGE INCOMPREHENSIBLE TRANS-TEMPORAL BANDS. PRESENTLY, IT IS NOTICED THAT THIS DOES NOT SEEM TO BE A POINT-SOURCE. INSTEAD, IT SEEMS TO BE A SLENDER FILAMENT, A STRAND OF ENERGETIC INFORMATION TRAVERSING A GREAT LENGTH ACROSS THE VOID, TWISTING PAST LOCAL AGGREGATIONS OF SUNS. ODD!

  INQUISITIVE, THE GREAT BEING SAMPLES IT. YES; ITS NATURE IS TIME-FREE, IS AKIN TO THE SMALL ENERGY-OUTPUTS THAT HAVE BEEN DIVERTING HIM. BUT IT IS STRONGER, AND VECTORIAL. PERHAPS BY TRACING IT TO ITS SOURCE SOME NEW INFORMATION MIGHT COME? AT THE LEAST, THIS WILL PROVIDE DISTRACTION FROM EVER-PRESENT DESOLATION.

  AVERTING ITS ENORMOUS BULK SO AS NOT TO DISTURB THE TENUOUS TRACK, THE MONSTROUS SENTIENCE BEGINS TO PROPEL ITSELF ALONGSIDE THE PECULIAR FILAMENT. NOW AND THEN IT SENSES MINUTE PARTICULATE SURGES OF ENERGY, AS THOUGH SOME UNHEARD-OF TININESSES TRAVEL THIS PATH.

  BUT AT LENGTH IT PERCEIVES THAT THE TRACE IS WEAKENING, AND SLOWLY DECIDES THAT IT HAS MISTAKEN THE DIRECTION OF EMISSION. IF IT DESIRES TO FIND THE SOURCE, IT MUST
REVERSE ITS COURSE. YES: THIS WILL BE DONE. THE PHENOMENON CONTINUES TO STIMULATE.

  AS THE PONDEROUS TURN BEGINS, AN EVEN ODDER EVENT OCCURS.

  Chapter 8

  Tivonel planes discreetly sidewind of Giadoc and the Hearers, watching for the party coming up from Deep. She is her merry self again. The frightful cry of the dying world, the emotional experience of merging with Giadoc and his dire predictions, all have been integrated to her memory-matrix while her attention turned to the practical task of hunting food. As Giadoc said, the Hearers weren’t feeding properly; she was shocked to see the frailty of some of his colleagues. One of them, an old male named Virmet, had been doing some ineffective food-supply in the intervals of his work. Tivonel had swept him with her straight up to the high layers behind the Wall, where the great rafts of food-plants stream. They soon found some—and a disturbing oddity as well.

  “Not those,” she signals to Virmet. “Can’t you tell they’re dead?”

  The old male hesitates as the lifeless clumps go by. “Is this usual, young Tivonel?”

  “No. But look—there’s good fat lively ones in that eddy over there. Keep them circling. I’ll go herd in another lot, those Deepers are going to be hungry.”

  In the end they’d driven down a lavish supply. Virmet secured most of it in plant-thickets while Tivonel herded some out to the line of Hearers stationed around the great Wall. They accept her offerings with preoccupied thanks; she gathers they are maintaining some sort of contact with a distant world. Weird.

  By the time she completes the long circuit even her strong body is tired. But she’s pleased with herself; obviously she’s needed here.

  “I will be your little Father, Giadoc!” she flashes mischievously as she passes him. His deep affectionate gleam answers her.

  Now everyone is awaiting the Deepers, who are about to arrive. The bright compacted life-signals of the pods they came up in have halted at the inner zone of the Wall and are now spreading out to individual emanations as they disembark. How many they are! A great crowd must be coming up from Deep.

  Lomax and other senior Hearers have gone in to guide them out to a calm broad updraft which will be the meeting-place. As the procession comes closer, Tivonel is amused to notice life-fields wavering all over the path. Probably Fathers who haven’t been out of Deep for years, having trouble jetting even through these calm breezes.

  But the big male beside Lomax is navigating sturdily. His field is huge and intricate, his mantle-lights are a beautiful Fatherly rose tuned deep violet by age. Why, it’s old Heagran himself, Eldest-Father of all!

  Things must be really serious, Tivonel realizes, blushing herself to suitable reverence as they pass.

  Behind Heagran comes an unsteady group of elder males of impressive life-strength, long past actual Fatherhood of course but representing the wisdom and leadership of Deep. With them is Kinto, chief Memory-Keeper, his corporeal body blurred by the enormously energic and complex structuring of his engram lattices. A grave occasion, to bring Kinto up! For an instant Tivonel’s control slips, and she shudders. Is Tyree really in danger? Could their beautiful world be extinguished like that nameless one?

  But she dismisses the fear, and is soon trying to hide bright gleams of amusement as a crowd of younger Fathers go wobbling by, striving to keep their dignity in the wild winds. Some have pouched children—and there among them, to her delight, is Tiavan, Giadoc’s son and hers. She’s glad to see he’s jetting strong and straight. I gave him that, she thinks; no matter what anyone says, female heredity counts. Tiavan flashes a quiet greeting to Giadoc as he passes the group of Hearers. Tivonel can guess how much the two of them would love a male-to-male talk about that child.

  Behind the males comes a single small figure with work-worn vanes: Old Janskelen, Eldest-Female. Tivonel sends her a warm transmission of appreciation. Janskelen was a great adventurer in her day, and she’s still so hardy and vigorous, still eager for projects. And a known defender of the Hearers in their unFatherly pursuit of knowledge, too.

  Jetting nonchalantly after Janskelen come a dozen or so females, their small fields bright and dense. Tivonel recognizes several of them as leaders of the radical Paradomin faction. What are they up to here? But she forgets them as the field-form of her friend Marockee appears among the last-comers.

  “Marockee! Companion of many food hunts!”

  Her friend’s mantle flashes in surprise. “Tivonel! Well met. What are you doing here?”

  “Later, later,” Tivonel tells her. “I have to supply these biglives. Can you leave them and help me?”

  “Done.”

  Old Virmet is struggling to control the food-raft in the eddies. Tivonel is glad of Marockee’s help in conveying the food out to the hungry and tired crowd.

  They make an effort to separate it and present it in semicivilized style, but the big males are rigid and pale blue with embarrassment at the prospect of eating like this. Lomax apologizes for the primitive conditions. Finally old Heagran says, “Nonsense!” and begins to scoop in fat-plants with unabashed gusto. Janskelen follows suit, and soon everyone is eating, more or less skilfully. The taste of the rich wild food is restorative. In the silence of the everlasting day one young Father actually proposes sleep, but is quickly voted down.

  “Our business here cannot wait,” Heagran announces. “We will commence as soon as I have, ah, completed this.”

  “Come and watch with me, Marockee,” Tivonel suggests. “We have much to exchange.”

  Marockee assents with a mock-erotic snap of polarization, and they jet into a plant-filled eddy Tivonel has already selected as her viewing site.

  “It’s hard to show real ahura out here.”

  Marockee assents; with these eddies coming every which way, it would be easy for a female to get into an upwind position, thereby indicating blatant flirtatiousness. Or, even sillier, to usurp the downwind position proper for males.

  As they settle into the edge of the lattice-plant, Tivonel notices that the Paradomin are brazenly hovering downwind of the group in a small current. Well, really! Then she sees something more amazing. One of them has a small double field!

  “What’s she doing, Marockee? She can’t—be carrying a child?”

  “That’s Avanil,” Marockee’s mantle lights with giggles. “Only she’s shortened it to Avan, like a male. She’s practicing Fathering with a young plenya. She wants to prove that females can care for children too.”

  “Great winds.” Tivonel scans hard. Yes—Avanil’s small extra nucleus is not that of a real infant, but one of the semi-intelligent pet animals that were becoming popular in Deep. Of course many female children mimic their brothers by “playing Father” with a baby animal until their Fathers put a stop to it. But here is a grown female openly carrying an imitation infant in her rudimentary pouch. Crazy!

  “She says it strengthens your field. She says if females did Fathering our fields would grow just as big too.”

  “Wild.” Tivonel idly blows away in inquisitive plant-root. A lot seems to have been going on in Deep while she’d been away.

  “I don’t know,” Marockee pumps air reflectively, “her field does look different now. And listen, she says the Fathers should exercise more, too. She believes we should all share each other’s work.”

  “I can just imagine Kinto on a hunt.” Tivonel laughs. “Marockee, I’ve had a real idea. Suppose we set up a barter relay station to exchange food from the Wild with some of the new plant-stuffs they’re bringing up from above the Abyss, and the things the kids make in Deep.”

  “What’s no new about that?”

  “Wait. My idea is, instead of always exchanging the stuff itself, we could have a system of counters. Small things we could carry in our pouches. The stations would give you so many counters for each kind of thing. Then you wouldn’t have to lug the stuff around looking for someone to swap with, or you could save up and get something else later, or whatever.”

  “Hey,” says Marockee, and
they fall to typical female small-talk.

  Presently the commotion outside quiets.

  “Sssh. It’s starting.”

  Heagran and the Deepers are ceremoniously deployed facing Lomax and the group of Hearers. Among them Giadoc’s mind-field seems to stand out in beauty to Tivonel’s scan.

  “We offer our memory,” Lomax signs ritually. Orva, the Recorder of the Hearers, moves toward Memory-Keeper Kinto.

  “Thank you, Chief Hearer,” Heagran’s deep violet tones reply. “We too have brought grave news, which you may consult at your convenience. However, we are many and time is short. Let our two good Recorders share in fullness while we confer in speech. First, what have you learned since your last message?”

  Orva and Kinto jet away to a polite distance, and the life-bands momentarily resonate as they merge.

  “More worlds have died in our area of the skies,” Lomax replies gravely. “A lone Destroyer is active out beyond us too. Perhaps the last death touched you?”

  “Yes, we felt it as we traveled. Tragic.” Heagran’s mantle pales ritually. “But you should be aware that at Near Pole these death-cries are now so frequent and intense that some are felt even in Deep. The Hearers there tell us that there are now only four living worlds between Tyree and what they call the Zone of Death. The time-eddies too are increasing. People are frightened.” He pauses, his mantle murmurous with deep-hued thought. “As you know, I did not formerly believe that these reports meant any danger to Tyree. I have changed my mind. But there are many still in Deep who do not believe this peril is real. Have you had any success in mind-touch with this lone Destroyer of yours?”

  “None whatever,” Lomax signs. “The attempt has been a complete failure and injured those who tried. It is utterly alien. There seems no hope of influencing it or even understanding it.”

  “What else have you learned of value?”

  At these words Tivonel notices a peculiar stir among the Deepers, as though the question has some unspoken significance. A very large old male whom she recognizes as Father Scomber has drifted closer to Heagran, his mantle courteously dark.