"Wonderful," said Moore. He didn't sound particularly impressed.
"Okay," said Vollring, "how about fresh shrimp? When was the last time you had shrimp? Oysters, oysters right there in Prague. Strawberry chiffon pie, how about that? And milk. I almost forgot. Real milk. When was the last time you had real milk? You never outgrow your need for it, you know. You could do yourself a real favor. Whipped cream."
"What do I have to do?"
"Ah, it's not much at all, really. Let's take a look at it, and let's try to understand that Dr. Waters is still trying to make the Utopia 3 experiment more nearly perfect all the time. You've seen definite improvement in your own life, and in the lives of all the other utopiates, haven't you?"
Moore hesitated. "Sure," he said.
"Good. So. Dr. Waters and Myra Waldecott have decided that a self-imposed structure could only accelerate that improvement. I must repeat that it's a self-imposed structure. A poet can't write fine original verse until he's mastered the classical forms. A painter must learn from the great masters before his own brush and palette explore new ground. A self-imposed structure would focus you, would direct you, guide your improvement in the most efficient way. Oh, you will end up nearly perfect on your own, of course, but Dr. Waters is offering you an opportunity to skip the trial-and-error method you'd suffer otherwise."
"That's wonderful," said Moore. He sighed.
"Here," said Vollring. "Take a look at this map." The map had areas outlined in crayon. "These are the places which you must consider closed to you, as though they weren't part of Utopia 3 at all."
"It's like Staefler said," murmured Moore.
"Hmm?"
"Nothing. What areas are these, now?"
"The ones in red. The area of France that's part of Utopia 3, and Luxembourg and Switzerland."
Moore felt a chill. He tried to hide his apprehension. "You mean, I can't go to Switzerland anymore, if I want?"
Vollring smiled, folded the map, and handed it to Moore. "Well," he said, "that's pretty much true. There are provisions, however, in case of emergency or special event, where you can get a written dispensation from Dr. Waters or Myra Waldecott. But that's pretty much the idea. You're in Prague. You won't miss Luxembourg."
"It's just the idea. I'll have to think about it."
"Sure," said Vollring. "Think about it. It's for the best. It's in the best interest of Utopia 3. Remember that. Remember how much Utopia 3 means to you, and that many more people will benefit if you become perfect so much sooner."
"That's a good point."
"And remember the food. Tournedos marchand de vin. Like that."
"Can I go home through these places? Just to say good-by?"
"Of course, Norman," said Vollring. "We're not unkind here. Just structured."
* * *
Moore stood at the window watching the sunset. He was in an old wooden house in the village of Villers-Marmery, near Rheims. The sun looked like new brass as it set behind the forested hills of the Montagne de Rheims. He sipped warm champagne from a tulip glass and allowed himself the indulgence of extreme sadness. The champagne was the cause of his melancholy feeling. He gulped it down in one last, long swallow, then casually, sadly, let the glass slip from his fingers. It hit the carpet but did not break.
The area around Rheims was champagne country. This was where all the genuine champagne of the world originated. It was the most important industry of the surrounding villages, and now it was severely crippled. Utopia 3 had sliced right through the country. Rheims had been named as the northwestern corner of Utopia 3, and consequently many of the vineyards had been abandoned. On his leisurely drive home, Moore had come to inspect the damage Utopia 3 had done.
Champagne is a blended wine. Unlike other wines of France, there are no chateaux listed on the labels. There is only the name of the firm that does the blending, and the classification of the product. Now, with a large portion of the vineyards overgrown, untended, the champagne products of the great houses would never again be the same. The blends would be different, the tastes of countless champagne drinkers would need to be altered, all to accommodate Utopia 3. The champagne houses of Rheims— Mumm, Piper-Heidsieck, Veuve Cliquot Ponsardin, Taittinger— had relocated to the southwest, in Epernay, and had had to go through costly revolutions in production to stay alive. "How selfish of me," thought Moore, still staring into the darkening landscape, "to think only of how champagne will never again'be the same. I should be thinking of how I will never be the same, how the world will never be the same, how everyone will soon be free and never again the same. But life is made up of a million tiny pieces, and the taste of champagne is one of the damn pieces."
He turned away and went into the parlor, where he lit many long candles. He had a book and several cans of 7-Up, and that was all that he had planned before bedtime.
* * *
The book that Moore was reading was Utopia by Thomas More. He had bought a paperback copy of it before he left the United States and had carried it around with him since. Now he felt ready to investigate More's arguments. He wanted to see what a genuine Utopia would be like and how it differed from Utopia 3. He wanted to see if a man dead for centuries could communicate with him, because Moore realized that no one still living was able to.
From Rheims he had driven due east, through Luxembourg. Every milepost hurt him slightly, every beautiful mountain view, every old castle, every still lake, every lonely bird's cry cost him something. He was aware that he had sold his rights to experience these things again, and he had sold those rights very cheaply. His anguish gladdened him in a way, because he needed to feel that he was making some kind of sacrifice. He wouldn't be able to accept the benefits of Utopia 3 without paying for them somehow. Deprivation was the only coin with meaning for him now. Luxembourg charmed him; he was very sad that it had been one of the areas he had waived to Dr. Waters. The old towns of Germany—Moore realized with a start that Utopia 3 occupied all of Germany's wine-producing areas. No more German wines at all, ever, ever again. No more Rieslings, no more Gewurtztraminers-didn't stop him, not even as he drove through Bayreuth, thinking of Wagner, of The Flying Dutchman, and Wagner reminding him of Goethe, and Goethe then of Faust, and that reminded Moore of Faust being carried through the hole in the ceiling in Prague, and then of Moore's selling his soul to Dr. Bertram Waters for a package of Patio frozen tacos.
Shortly after passing through Bayreuth, Moore decided that he was in no great hurry to get back to Prague, after all. He chose instead to spend some time at the famous spas of Bohemia, now empty and bubbling up warm water for no one. His idea was that he had been immersed too much in people, in pettiness, and that he had to get more deeply into the real values of Utopia 3—the land itself, the resources, the physical features that he could relate to simply. With people, Moore suspected, no matter how noble the intent, a defect was unavoidable, a taint of politics.
Marianske'-Lazne, first. Marienbad, when it was German, Marianske'-Lazne' in Czech now, forever, as a part of Utopia 3. For many years it was one of the most fashionable spas on the European continent. It was visited by people from many nations, all seeking the benefits of the baths. Separated by a few mountains from Germany, the spa was not far enough into Czechoslovakia to have acquired much of the Slavic influence which would have kept away the more fastidious of the tourists. Moore wondered if there were any statistics recording the number of patrons who visited while the place was Marienbad, as against the number who came to spend a few days at the harsher-sounding Marianske-Lazne. Moore didn't care, particularly. The water was still there, the town itself was less industrialized than the surrounding area of Bohemia, and the mountains and forests nearby refreshed him. "How wonderful," he thought, "to be able to walk through endless dark woods without once stumbling on a Utopia 3 campsite or some wizened old Utopia 3 trail guide." Some day Moore planned to walk by himself through a forest. He had tried that only once, when he was fourteen years old, and in ten minutes the lonel
iness had become so great that he panicked and ran screaming through the woods until he emerged twenty minutes later outside Hamden, Connecticut. He had been embarrassed then, but thanks to Dr. Waters he knew that he could scream all he wanted in Bohemia with no need to be shy.
A matter of fifty kilometers northeast of Marianske'-Lazne' was another spa, Karlovy Vary. This place was larger but had evidently been less exclusive. There were pebble paths throughout the grounds, many guest houses, hotels, benches everywhere for the aging Europeans to rest during their rests. There were theaters and taverns and restaurants so that people could take the cure in the morning and spoil it all in the evening. Moore wandered through the buildings, seeing photographs of people, all apparently having the best time of their lives, walking arm in arm along the paths, sipping from peculiar mugs with long pottery straws extending from the handles. A sign in several languages over a souvenir stand stated that these pottery straws were used to keep the warm water from depositing minerals on the teeth. Moore got the image of spa regulars who came back every year, twice a year, to drink the warm mineral water, thinking the water was healthful. Inside, these deluded fools were corroding like ancient plumbing, calcium and manganese piling like stalagmites in their arteries. Ancient Bohemians, old men from the neighboring villages, dying by their chessboards, tipping over slightly, fell to the ground and shattered into a million sparkling shards, looking inside like polished geodes. Moore dipped his tongue in the water once. It was warm and tasted bad. That was all he needed to know.
Another stop on the same line was Jachymov. Here he bathed also, enjoying the warmth on his naked body, lying back, massaged by the movement of the water, as he read Utopia. Jachymov was farther north, closer to the old boundary between East Germany and Czechoslovakia, higher in the mountains. The warm water turned icy cold in some places, fed by cold mountain springs, but Moore was invigorated. He was delighted. He was very happy until he saw a framed article clipped from an old journal on the wall of an inn. The article was in German and Moore couldn't read much of it, but it had drawings of Marie Curie and Pierre Curie, a drawing of a chunk of rock, and a map showing Jachymov. An arrow linked the chunk of rock to the map, with a big X over the very place where Moore had soaked himself. The Curies had discovered their radium here. Here, of all places.
Moore was frightened. Radioactivity. That was worse than all the manganese in the world. Radioactive water had bathed his flesh. He wondered fearfully if his offspring would have reason to curse his stupidity.
Somewhat shaken, Moore gathered up his few belongings and packed them in a new car, filled its gas tank, and began the ride back to Prague, a distance of about one hundred and thirty kilometers. He drove it in two parts, stopping once to refresh himself. He arrived in Prague late at night, tired, hungry, and feeling despite it all very much in command of his own affairs. He had beaten down the threat at the Utopia 3 lodge, had learned how to conduct himself, had turned a good bargain that would feed him better than anyone else in the project, and had possibly begun a meaningful relationship with Donna Lupowicz. He wrote a note on his bookmark that he should see her as soon as possible, with some flowers and a souvenir pottery straw he had brought her.
* * *
The golem—the golem, Rabbi Low's golem—lived in the attic of the Old-New Synagogue in the Josefov Quarter of Prague. The golem didn't live there exactly, but it abided there. This was the golem that Moore had to worry about. He had never lived anywhere in the United States where he had to contend with the potential threat of golem-attack. This was one of the endless tests that Utopia 3 presented him. What was the proper response to a golem? How was Moore supposed to act? They hadn't covered golems at the orientation lodge. Leather wallets, yes, but supernatural creatures, no. Moore decided that the best defense was a good offense. His offense consisted of ignoring the myths and legends altogether, until such time as the myth or legend in question demanded attention.
This happened on the evening of July 26. It was a warm evening, with an occasional breeze bearing flower fragrances over the silent streets and houses. Moore was walking along the twisting ways of the old quarter. Not long after the sun went down there was a brief shower of warm rain. The puddles on the cobbled streets lay like black glass in the darkness. Moore felt a fine mist in the air. The sky was covered with clouds, moving black and gray across the face of the moon. Moore expected to feel sad again, because that was how he usually felt in the dark, in the dampness, alone, tired and with a slightly upset stomach. Instead, he was surprised by a vague but definite happiness. He didn't know where he was going, but he had a suspicion that he was trying to find the building where Donna Lupowicz lived.
Moore turned a corner and saw something moving farther down the street. His heart started to pound. Suddenly he was terrified. He was not far from the Old-New Synagogue, and he knew that he was in the general territory of the golem's domain. The golem was supposed to be packed away, immobile, a dead thing that could only be activated by the proper ancient Hebraic mystic ceremonies. But that did not mean the golem was forever inactive. Death didn't mean much to a golem, something that was never born to begin with. The figure lurched toward him. Moore gave a small shriek and walked backward a few steps, back around the corner. He rested there for a moment, breathing hard, trying to control himself. He didn't know what to do. If he stayed where he was, the golem might find him and kill him. If he ran away, the golem would find him and kill him, sooner or later. Better later, thought Moore, and he started to run. But even as he ran away, his mind argued another point. "What if I tame the golem?" he thought. "What if I do what even Rabbi Low didn't do? Make the golem my slave. Make it work for me. That would impress Donna Lupowicz. She'd know for sure what that meant. And back at the lodge, what would Vollring think? Ha. And Myra Waldecott. I'd like to go back there sometime and break in on one of her songfests with my golem. And Dr. Waters, boy, I'd like to see that crook palm off his grocer's dairy case on me then." He thought these things in the time it took him to ran two blocks. A part of the sidewalk was broken and raised by the roots of a tree. Moore tripped and sprawled forward, hurting his hands and badly scraping his arms and knees. "Huh!" he granted. He sat up and robbed the heels of his hands. He didn't move for a short while, getting back his breath. He was not afraid. He wondered at that as he stood and walked back to the corner. He peered around it slowly.
Ten feet away a shaded face with black, glittering eyes stared back at him. "Wah!" he cried.
"Norman?"
"Yeah, what?"
"It's me, Norman."
It wasn't the golem. The golem had never met him before. It wouldn't know his name. "Who?"
"It's me. Eileen Brant."
"Right," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. Dark. I don't have much night vision."
"Vitamin A," said Brant. "What are you doing, taking an evening run? Racing around the capitals of Europe in the dark? Bumping into tourist attractions? Bruising yourself on the priceless treasures that Utopia 3 has to offer?"
"Well, so far Prague has been good to me. I haven't exhausted this old town yet."
"That's nice, Norman. Let's go eat."
Moore was still recovering from his scare. He hadn't even begun to process his surprise yet, his sudden shock at seeing Eileen Brant in his home city. "What do you feel like eating?" he asked, trying to smooth out wrinkles and ragged tears in his clothing.
"Something Czech. Something, you know, something wonderfully different. Radish slaw. What do you usually eat?"
Moore decided that he wasn't going to tell her about the deal he had made with Dr. Waters. He didn't know if Waters had made Brant an offer for her options yet. He didn't want to mention the subject. "I don't know," he said. "It's kind of hard with, you know, canned stuff instead of fresh meat. It leaves huge gaps in the recipes sometimes, and you just can't improvise. What I'd love to have is a pork roast with potato dumplings and sauerkraut. But instead of the pork roast I'd have to substitute something like D
anish canned bacon or Spam. I'd rather not."
Brant sighed. "You make little holes in the pork roast, and you hide slivers of garlic. And you put caraway seeds in the sauerkraut. And you make a plate of pork loin and dumplings and cut it all up and mix it all together with the sauerkraut and put salt and pepper, lots of pepper, on it and mix it up with gravy. And you sop up the gravy with some of the chunks of dumpling."
"Uh, yes," said Moore. He was remembering food he hadn't tasted in years. He would have it soon, though, whenever Dr. Waters paid off on his part of the deal.
"What do we have instead?" she asked.
"There's great sausage around still, hanging from people's attic rafters. And beer, Pilsener. And we can open a can of Green Giant Mexicorn or something."
"I came a long way, Norman," said Brant. She sounded unhappy. "I want more than that."
"Shh," said Moore. "That's no way to talk." He knew just how true that statement was. He knew that she could be dragged back kicking and screaming to the lodge for making a complaint like that.
"Don't tell me how to talk. Take me to where you stay."
"All right," he said. They walked through Prague quietly, thoughtful, wondering what they were going to do for the rest of their lives. They were pioneers, and that made it very hard on everyone. They realized that their treasures, the things that had attracted them to Utopia 3 in the first place, were going to be earned with a large expenditure of pain. There was a different pain for each utopiate. But the very real existence of that pain drew them all together. It may have been that this was something that Dr. Waters in his benevolent wisdom had foreseen. In that case, Moore thought, there wasn't any pain, and they were actually very, very happy.
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