by Rodney Hall
The first soldier to wake, eyes cracking open, finds his comrades vanished, himself alone, surrounded by nothing—the entire army gone, all sense of direction erased—nothing to be made out on the ridge ahead, no sign of defenders, nor any objective. Seized by terror, he is islanded in the blanketing hush of the infinite.
The experiment
This is the deal, said the expert.
What is the deal? said the client.
You get encased in the product, said the expert.
But what is the product? said the client.
Do you know what that is? said the expert.
Not to my knowledge, said the client.
The expert seemed in no hurry. Finally he said: It resembles fine brown sand.
So I see, said the client.
Special stuff. Perhaps you think I’m deluded? said the expert.
Possibly but not really, said the client.
Once mixed, the texture is not unlike plaster, said the expert.
Strange smell, said the client.
Which we mould to your exact shape, packing it thickly around you while you breathe in and we invite you to hold your breath.
Then what? said the client.
Then it sets instantly to lock you absolutely still—and this is important—to seal you away.
How do I breathe? said the client.
It seals you in except for your nose. We position your nose to match a small cavity, said the expert. We have the patent.
Is it usually so small? said the client.
The cavity comes complete with air channel. No light whatsoever penetrates the curve of the channel, said the expert.
Is this the set-up? said the client.
This is the set-up, said the expert.
And neither seemed to have anything more to say for a while. If the product in particular caught the attention, it was not alone in catching it, for the coffin-like apparatus caught it too.
The terror you feel passes in a flash, said the expert after sharing the pause. Your mind will understand total helplessness for the first time.
I have known helplessness before, said the client.
You have not known helplessness like this helplessness, said the expert, because:
1. The product fills even the tiniest cracks and cavities—inside your ear, under your fingernails—in an embrace beyond anything in anyone’s experience.
2. Your desperate urge to struggle will instantly leave you because in these circumstances pure reason takes over with the understanding that you must remain so until released.
3. You will know it in every fibre of your nakedness and in every sealed pore.
4. Not only will you immediately accept that no shout or scream could be heard but your jaw will be clamped shut in any case, and we have never yet heard a sound from in there, not even respiration.
5. Conserving air or energy is not an issue, for only your closed eyes and your tongue can move in that sightless silence.
6. Clients shut themselves down. They do it. We have no part in that. This is beyond instruction or education. It is even beyond warning. It happens.
7. When it happens for you the experience is going to be absolute and without precedent.
Is that all there is to it? said the client.
It is a tremendous all, said the expert.
Please explain further, said the client.
At this very moment of the process you will hear God’s voice, said the expert.
God’s voice? said the client.
God’s voice in person, said the expert.
Can I depend on that? said the client.
Clear, present and personal. He will speak to you, said the expert. What He will say cannot, of course, be known to me or anyone else, or predicted.
But He will speak? said the client.
All our previous clients without exception have reported that He does and that He continues speaking with the greatest imaginable clarity, said the expert.
What about? said the client.
I’ve told you I cannot know but I have been told in some cases quite ordinary things.
Will I be dead by then? said the client.
Not unless we have made a dreadful error, said the expert and he laughed.
Then standing there naked the client, with bewildered laughter, joined in.
God will talk to you right up till the moment when we crack the shell with hammers and the mould falls off, said the expert.
How long will that be? said the client.
You will have no idea how long. Nor will we. We do not plan such things. We are guided by inspiration. And anyway if we were to know and if we were to tell you, it would mean nothing, said the expert.
Nothing? said the client.
Nothing. Minutes, hours, days will become bafflingly impossible for you to judge, revealing Time itself as purely molecular and indistinguishable from Being.
Outside the window it was raining. The rain rained beautifully downwards, as it always does.
You will have no idea what we are doing, or whether we even know you are still in there, the expert interrupted the silence eventually. When the moment of release happens, you will see nothing and hear nothing of its approach.
I shall be waiting for it, said the client.
You may think you will pray for escape, but no. I’m afraid the first hammer blow is going to come as a shock and the cracked shell a crisis of piercing grief, said the expert.
So, that’s what I’m paying for? said the client.
It’s all anyone can tell you by way of preparation, said the expert. I’ve done my best.
I’ve to lie down inside this thing? said the client.
Give us the nod when you’re ready. The product must be packed around you the instant the machine mixes it. Then the procedure can begin and you’re away, said the expert and looked out through the rain-streaked window.
I will nod when I’m ready, said the client.
You are never going to be the same afterwards. Trust us, said the expert. And welcome to the God Experiment.
Gettysburg
Dear Mr Lincoln. In accordance with Departmental protocol I herewith return the draft text of your forthcoming Gettysburg speech. You propose the following words:
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—that that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the Earth.
This text has now been examined and found to contain numerous infringements of intellectual property rights. The holders of these rights insist on their ownership under sanction of the law. You are required, therefore, to respect these rights of property and, unless terms have been negotiated with the proprietors, to delete all reference to the following to avoid infringement of rights. Four Score (a gambling softwar
e program licensed by the Macrosoft Corporation), Nation (a weekly political journal), Liberty (fabric design label), The Proposition (a chain of strip clubs), Created Equal (war-of-the-sexes appliances marketing), Civil War (denim clothing), Endure (deodorant), Battle-field (depilation services and chest waxing for men), War (lipstick), Final Resting Place (multi-level cemetery opportunities), Live (Korean cellular phone), Fitting and Proper (school uniform underwear), ‘Cannot’ (slogan of the Untimate Strict Diet Campaign), The Brave Men (association of single fathers), Living and Dead (lost persons search agency), Power to Add (calculators and pocket organizers), Little Note (post-it tabs), Never Forget (perfume), Unfinished Work (bankruptcy inducement strategies), Thus Far (pregnancy interventions), Nobly Advanced (brassieres), ‘For us to be here’ (cover song), The Great Task (mobile garbage-compacting services), Honored Dead (rock band), Increased Devotion (slow-release testosterone boost capsules), Full Measure (Short-cut Mathematics for Intermediate and Advanced Students), Resolve (lemon-charged washing powder), Died in Vain (campaign against animal fur products), Under God (sexual positions for Tantric exponents), A New Birth of Freedom (euthanasia pills), Government of the People (restraints, halters, whips and handcuffs), People (social sciences newsletter), Perish (cockroach poison), Earth (perfume-free allergenic soap).
We are pleased to advise that, in the absence of negotiated terms, the text for your speech is approved as follows:
and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new , conceived in , and dedicated to that all men are .
Now we are engaged in a great , testing whether that or any so conceived and so dedicated, can long . We are met on a great of that . We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a for those who here gave their lives that might . It is altogether that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we dedicate—we consecrate—we hallow—this ground. who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor or detract. The world will , nor long remember what we say here, but it can what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the which they who fought here have so . It is rather dedicated to remaining before us—that from these we take to that cause for which they gave the last of devotion—that we here highly that these dead shall not have —that this , , shall have —that that , by the ,for the ,shall not from the.
Yours faithfully.
A couple
In middle age Ms Arabella Tomlinson and the former Mrs Mackenzie (that is to say, Mavis Mackenzie) sought refuge with each other. Mrs Mackenzie had suffered thirty years’ marriage to Mr Mackenzie (Alfred, of unlamented memory). She left him before he died, so she was able to tell him what she thought of him … not that this could be claimed as a great enough triumph to have actually caused his heart attack. A pity, that. No, he lasted, in his swinish alcoholism, another five years. Indeed it was precisely this five years of separation which became so bitter a torment to his escaped wife that she took refuge with a lover—her needs and so forth—things being as they were for a woman alone … the cost of living going up the while, plus inevitably spending a fortune at the pharmacy.
The lover, Arabella Tomlinson, a woman of her own age and inclinations who declared herself as ‘never known to say a thing I had to take back’, clasped Mrs Mackenzie—Mavis, Mavis!—to the warmest of bosoms, called her Pussycat and titillated her with sexual pleasures she had never imagined possible. Nay, flushed with these delights they decided to go the full hog and pool their meagre savings. They bought a tiny house on the time payment plan, though it cost lots more than they could afford, a tiny garden to dig and a tiny terrier to help them dig it (which, composedly, the obliging animal set out to do without delay). Now this … this, Arabella declared, looking around after they moved in and she could safely shut the door on her prize, this is civilised!
To do justice to brave misguided humanity, I admit they were happy for a while.
But, alas, the delights proved ephemeral. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but things got in the way. Trouble being that they both had standards. Among the thousand hazards of intimacy these two ladies fell victim to all but very few. Sudden ferocities revealed themselves in the shape of the right way to fold a towel, the appropriate tightness for the kitchen tap. Wilful little acts of tenderness grew rare, perfect love revealed itself as something less than the anticipated bed of roses and the mask of pleasure fell away to reveal tyrannical jealousies.
Then there were Mavis’s sons (twenty-nine, twenty-seven and twenty-four) who, feeling themselves unable to handle the situation in a scientific spirit, unanimously and publicly let it be known that they regarded her coming out as disgusting, as undermining their respectability, exposing them to ridicule, costing them friendships’ and, worse, promotion—and, as if these indignities were not enough, retrospectively soiling even their birth with the taint of an unnatural perversion. In other words there could be no appealing to them for rescue from Arabella, as they made clearer than clear, not on your (adj.) nelly! Mavis took to gazing morosely into her purse as if to find there the cause of depletion which, as she very well knew, was her share of paying off the house, meanwhile hoping to God something awful would happen in the world to restore her sense of proportion, some tragedy on an international scale to overshadow her suspicions and make her feel better.
Arabella herself had only ever preferred women, she being of a more determined and focused character, besides being less compromised by conscience. She, likewise, had nobody to turn to, her previous ‘adventure’ having been unmasked as ‘a vicious little slut after all’, there was no going back. The upshot was that, with little else to do—stranded in a manner of speaking—both ladies, stuck with reciprocal bad luck, and committed besides to an ambitious confidence in victory, took up the same retirement hobby of systematic investigation: spying on each other.
Nothing went unnoticed. The little house became a mine of evidence. Unfamiliar numbers listed on the monthly telephone bill, postmarks compromising the mail, footprints across a garden bed, their little car’s fuel gauge unaccountably down to empty, a knife left on the bench top … every such detail was examined for clues and, in all fairness, the general putting of this and that together did seem to yield giveaway signs. A gap in the curtains suggested an overture, a signal to some third party lurking outdoors and just waiting till the coast was clear. A stray undergarment, not noticed when the wash was being put in the little machine they’d chosen with such enthusiasm, took on the status of a temptation set aside for some unnamed nose to sniff in private (the undies, of course, not the washing machine). Neglected taps dripped. Dead lightbulbs occupied a growing number of sockets. The house cleaning went to pot as a strategy of war. You know how it goes. Galloping aggravations. The roof leaked. The stairs grew treacherous. There were even, now and again, actual traces of interlopers as-yet-unknown. So, when seated either side of their kitchen table, united by the odour of infusing teabags, eyes apparently closed against each other, the ladies watched through expertly narrowed slits to detect the minutest adjustment in the other’s body language … the least telltale rustle of fabric might indicate discomfort due to some minor and, of course, secret triumph. Oh, such gloating!