“I think I’ll leave here now,” Halperin said.
“Yes. That would be wise. I will stay another day, I think.”
Filiberto appeared, carrying the owl-pig mask from Halperin’s room. “This is for you,” he said. “Because that you were troubled here, that you will think kindly of us. Please take it as our gift.”
Halperin was touched by that. He made a little speech of gratitude and put the mask in his car.
Guzmán said, “Are you well enough to drive?”
“I think so. I’ll be all right once I leave here.” He shook hands with everyone. His fingers were quivering. At a very careful speed he drove away from the hotel, through the plaza, where sleeping figures lay sprawled like discarded dolls, and mounds of paper streamers and other trash were banked high against the curb. At an even more careful speed he negotiated the cactus-walled road out of town. When he was about a kilometer from San Simón Zuluaga, he glanced to his right and saw Ellen Chambers sitting next to him in the car. If he had been traveling faster he would have lost control of the wheel. But after the first blinding moment of terror came a rush of annoyance and anger. “No,” he said. “You don’t belong in here. Get the hell out of here. Leave me alone.” She laughed lightly. Halperin felt like sobbing. Swiftly and unhesitatingly he seized Filiberto’s owl-pig mask, which lay on the seat beside him, and scaled it with a flip of his wrist past her nose and out the open car window. Then he clung tightly to the wheel and stared forward. When he could bring himself to look to the right again, she was gone. He braked to a halt and rolled up the window and locked the car door.
It took him all day to reach Acapulco. He went to bed immediately, without eating, and slept until late the following afternoon. Then he phoned the Aeromexico office.
Two days later he was home in San Francisco. The first thing he did was call a Sacramento Street dealer and arrange for the sale of all his masks. Now he collects Japanese netsuke, Hopi kachina dolls, and Navaho rugs. He buys only through galleries and does not travel much anymore.
GATE OF HORN, GATE OF IVORY
An odd concatenation of ironies surrounds this little story.
I was, for ten years beginning in 1969, the editor of an annual anthology of original science fiction stories called New Dimensions. During that time I published a good many interesting and important stories by such writers as Ursula K. Le Guin, Gardner Dozois, George Alec Effinger, James Tiptree, Jr., Harlan Ellison, Joanna Russ, Philip Jose Farmer, Gregory Benford, Isaac Asimov, and Barry Malzberg. Some of the stories I ran won Hugo and Nebula awards, and a few, like Le Guin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” and Joanna Russ’s “Nobody’s Home,” have become much-reprinted classics.
In all that time, New Dimensions never published a story by Robert Silverberg. One minor but not insignificant reason for that was that I didn’t write any short stories between November, 1973 and January, 1980. Even if I had, though, you wouldn’t have seen them in New Dimensions, because it isn’t much of a challenge for editors to sell stories to themselves, and I would have felt foolish filling New Dimensions with my own work.
By 1979, though, I was beginning to emerge from my five-year mid-1970’s retirement from fiction writing, and I wanted to free myself from my editorial tasks in order to have more time and energy for doing stories. So I invited my friend and neighbor Marta Randall, then at the peak of her own science-fiction career, to take over New Dimensions. We worked out a complicated transitional mode: the eleventh New Dimensions would carry the byline, “edited by Robert Silverberg and Marta Randall.” Issue twelve would be slugged “edited by Marta Randall and Robert Silverberg.” And from the thirteenth issue onward, New Dimensions would carry Marta’s name alone.
And so it came to pass: a Silverberg-Randall issue in 1980, a Randall-Silverberg issue in 1981. In November of 1981, as Marta was putting the finishing touches on her first solo issue, she caught me by surprise by saying to me, “Since your name won’t be on number thirteen as editor, how about writing a story for me?”
Well, why not? I thought. Nearly every well-known science-fiction writer of the period had been published in New Dimensions except me. I had already decided to spend the autumn and winter of 1981 writing short stories anyway. And now that I was no longer connected with the anthology in any way, there was no reason to disqualify myself from contributing. A week or two later I delivered “Gate of Horn, Gate of Ivory” to Marta. Now I, too, had sold a story to New Dimensions.
But it never appeared there. New Dimensions’ publisher underwent a turbulent internal upheaval the following year, and its entire science-fiction line, including New Dimensions and a host of other books in progress, was canceled before publication. New Dimensions 13 exists today only in galley-proof form.
However, a second anthology of original science fiction—Universe—was being edited just then by yet another Bay Area resident, Terry Carr. It had begun publication about the same time as New Dimensions, had won just about as much acclaim for its material, and indeed had been in direct although friendly—very friendly—competition with New Dimensions for stories, all along. I had written a few stories for Universe in its early days, and when I resumed writing them in 1980 I had vaguely promised to do another for it, but never had. When Terry heard that New Dimensions had been suspended with an entire issue of fiction in inventory, including one of mine, he asked Marta to show him the stories, and a little while later he called to ask if it was all right to use “Gate of Horn.” Which is why the story with which I had intended to make my New Dimensions debut appeared instead in the 1984 number of its chief competitor, Universe.
——————
Often at night on the edge of sleep I cast my mind toward the abyss of time to come, hoping that I will tumble through some glowing barrier and find myself on the shores of a distant tomorrow. I strain at the moorings that hold me to this time and this place and yearn to break free. Sometimes I feel that I have broken free, that the journey is at last beginning, that I will open my eyes in the inconceivable dazzling future. But it is only an illusion, like that fluent knowledge of French or Sanskrit or calculus that is born in dreams and departs by dawn. I awaken and it is the year 1983 and I am in my own bed with the striped sheets and the blue coverlet, and nothing has changed.
But I try again and again and still again, for the future calls me and the bleak murderous present repels me, and again the illusion that I am cutting myself loose from the time line comes over me, now more vivid and plausible than ever before, and as I soar and hurtle and vanish through the permeable membranes of the eons I wonder if it is finally in truth happening. I hover suspended somewhere outside the fabric of time and space and look down upon the Earth, and I can see its contours changing as though I watch an accelerated movie: roads sprout and fork and fork once more; villages arise and exfoliate into towns and then into cities and then are overtaken by the forest; rivers change their courses and deliver their waters into great mirror-bright lakes that shrivel and become meadows. And I hover, passive, a dreamer, observing. There are two gates of sleep, says Homer, and also Virgil. One is fashioned of horn, and one of ivory. Through the gate of horn pass the visions that are true, but those that emerge from the gate of ivory are deceptive dreams that mean nothing. Do I journey in a dream of the ivory gate? No, no, this is a true sending, this has the solidity and substance of inexorable reality. I have achieved it this time. I have crossed the barrier. Hooded figures surround me; somber eyes study me; I look into faces of a weird sameness, tawny skin, fleshless lips, jutting cheekbones that tug the taut skin above them into drumheads. The room in which I lie is high-vaulted and dark but glows with a radiance that seems inherent in the material of its walls. Abstract figurings, like the ornamentation of a mosque, dance along those walls in silver inlay; but this is no mosque, nor would the tribe of Allah have loved those strange and godless geometries that restlessly chase one another like lustful squirrels over the wainscoting. I am there; I am surely there.
“I want to see everything,” I say.
“See it, then. Nothing prevents you.”
One of them presses into my hand a shining silver globe, an orb of command that transports me at the tiniest squeeze of my hand. I fly upward jerkily and in terror, rising so swiftly that the air grows cold and the sky becomes purple, but in a moment I regain control and come to govern my trajectory more usefully. At an altitude of a few dozen yards I pass over a city of serene cubical buildings of rounded corners, glittering with white Mediterranean brilliance in the gentle sunlight. I see small vehicles, pastel-hued, teardrop-tapered, in which citizens with the universal face of the era ride above crystalline roadbeds. I drift over a garden of plants I cannot recognize, perhaps new plants entirely, with pink succulent leaves and great, mounding, golden inflorescences, or ropy stems like bundles of coaxial cable, or jagged green thorns tipped with tiny blue eyes. I come to a pond of air where serene naked people swim with minimal motions of their fingertips. I observe a staircase of some yielding rubbery substance that vanishes into a glowing nimbus of radiance, and children are climbing that staircase and disappearing into that sparkling place at its top. In the zoological gardens I look down on creatures from a hundred worlds, stranger than any protozoan made lion-sized.
For days I tour this place, inexhaustibly curious, numb with awe. There is no blade of grass out of place. There is no stain nor blemish. The sounds I hear are harmonious sounds, and no other. The air is mild and the winds are soft. Only the people seem stark and austere to me, I suppose because of their sameness of features and the hieratic Egyptian solemnity of their eyes, but after a while I realize that this is only my poor archaic sensibility’s misunderstanding, for I feel their love and support about me like a harness as I fly, and I know that these are the happiest, most angelic of all the beings that have walked the earth. I wonder how far in time I have traveled. Fifty thousand years? Half a million? Or perhaps—perhaps, and that possibility shrivels me with pain—perhaps much less than that. Perhaps this is the world of a hundred fifty years from now, eh? The post-apocalyptic era, the coming utopia that lies just on the farther shore of our sea of turbulent nightmares. Is it possible that our world can be transformed into this so quickly? Why not? Miracles accelerate in an age of miracles. From the wobbly thing of wood and paper that flew a few seconds at Kitty Hawk to the gleaming majesty of the transcontinental jetliner was only a bit more than fifty years. Why not imagine that a world like this can be assembled in just as little time? But if that is so—
The torment of the thought drives me to the ground. I fall; they are taken by surprise, but ease my drop; I land on the warm moist soil and kneel, clutching it, letting my head slacken until my forehead touches the ground. I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder, just a touch, steadying me, soothing me.
“Let go,” I say, virtually snarling. “Take your hand off!”
The hand retreats.
I am alone with my agony. I tremble, I sob, I shiver. I am aware of them surrounding me, but they are baffled, helpless, confused. Possibly they have never seen pain before. Possibly suffering is no part of their vocabulary of spirit.
Finally one of them says softly, “Why do you weep?”
“Out of anger. Out of frustration.”
They are mystified. They surround me with shining machinery, screens and coils and lights and glowing panels, that I suspect is going to diagnose my malady. I kick everything over. I trample the intricate mechanisms and shove wildly at those who reach for me, even though I see that they are reaching not to restrain me but to soothe me.
“What is it?” they keep asking. “What troubles you?”
“I want to know what year this is.”
They confer. It may be that their numbering system is so different from ours that they are unable to tell me. But there must be a way: diagrams, analogies, astronomical patterns. I am not so primitive that I am beyond understanding such things.
Finally they say, “Your question has no meaning for us.”
“No meaning? You speak my language well enough. I need to know what year this is.”
“Its name is Eiligorda,” one of them says.
“Its name? Years don’t have names. Years have numbers. My year is numbered 1983. Are we so far in my future that you don’t remember the years with numbers?” I begin stripping away my clothing. “Here, look at me. This hair on my body—do you have hair like that? These teeth—see, I have thirty-two of them, arranged in an arc.” I hold up my hands. “Nails on my fingers! Have fingernails evolved away?” I tap my belly. “In here, an appendix dangling from my gut! Prehistoric, useless, preposterous! How long ago did that disappear? Look at me! See the ape-man, and tell me how ancient I am!”
“Our bodies are just like yours,” comes the quiet reply. “Except that we are healthier and stronger and resistant to disease. But we have hair. We have fingernails. We have the appendix.” They are naked before me, and I see that it is true. Their bodies are lean and supple, and there is a weird and disconcerting similarity of physique about them all, but they are not alien in any way; these could be twentieth-century bodies.
“I want you to tell me,” I say, “how distant in time your world is from mine.”
“Not very,” someone answers. “But we lack the precise terminology for describing the interval.”
“Not very,” I say. “Listen, does the earth still go around the sun?”
“Of course.”
“The time it takes to make one circuit—has that changed?”
“Not at all.”
“How many times, then, do you think the earth has circled the sun since my era?”
They exchange glances. They make quick rippling gestures—a kind of counting, perhaps. But they seem unable to complete the calculation. They murmur, they smile, they shrug. At last I understand their problem, which is not one of communication but one of tact. They do not want to tell me the truth for the same reason that I yearn to know it. The truth will hurt me. The truth will split me with anguish.
They are people of the epoch that immediately succeeds yours and mine. They are, quite possibly, the great-great-grandchildren of some who live in our world of 1983; or it may be that they are only grandchildren. The future they inhabit is not the extremely distant future. I am positive of that. But time stands still for them, for they do not know death.
Fury and frenzy return to me. I shake with rage; I taste burning bile; I explode with hatred, and launch myself upon them, scratching, punching, kicking, biting, trying in single outpouring of bitter resentment to destroy the entire sleek epoch into which I have fallen.
I harm several of them quite seriously.
Then they recover from their astonishment and subdue me, without great effort, dropping me easily with a few delicate musical tones and holding me captive against the ground. The casualties are taken away.
One of my captors kneels beside me and says, “Why do you show such hostility?”
I glare at him. “Because I am so close to being one of you.”
“Ah. I think I can comprehend. But why do you blame us for that?”
The only answer I can give him is more fury; I tug against my invisible bonds and lunge as if to slaughter him with sheer energy of rage; from me pours such a blaze of madness as to sear the air, and so intense is my emotion that it seems to me I am actually breaking free, and seizing him, and clawing at him, and smashing him. But I am only clutching at phantoms. My arms move like those of a windmill, and I lose my balance and topple and topple and topple, and when I regain my balance I am in my own bed once more, striped sheets, blue coverlet, the red eye of the digital clock telling me that it is 4:36 A.M. So they have punished me by casting me from their midst. I suppose that is no more than I deserve. But do they comprehend, do they really comprehend, my torment? Do they understand what it is like to know that those who will come just a little way after us will have learned how to live forever and to live in paradise, and that one of us, at least, has had a g
limpse of it, but that we will all be dead when it comes to pass? Why should we not rage against the generations to come, aware that we are nearly the last ones who will know death? Why not scratch and bite and kick? An awful iron door is closing on us, and they are on the far side, safe. Surely they will begin to understand that, when they have given more thought to my visit. Possibly they understood it even while I was there. I suspect they did, finally. And that when they returned me to my own time I was given a gift of grace by those gilded futurians: that their mantle of immortality has been cast over me, that I will be allowed to live on and on until time has come round again and I am once more in their era, but now as one of them. That is their gift to me, and perhaps that is their curse on me as well, that I must survive through all the years of terrible darkness that must befall before that golden dawn, that I will tarry here until they come again.
DANCERS IN THE TIME-FLUX
Long ago, in what almost seems to me now another geological epoch, I wrote a novel called Son of Man. The year was 1969, when the world was new and strange and psychedelic, and Son of Man was my attempt to reproduce in prose form some of the visionary aspects of life in that heady era and pass the result off as a portrait of the world of the far, far future. The results were very strange indeed, but to me, at least, exciting and rewarding; and over the years Son of Man has retained a small but passionate audience. It’s the sort of book that polarizes readers in an extremely sharp way: some find themselves unable to get past page three, others read it over and over again. (I read it now and then myself, as a matter of fact.)
Writing Son of Man had been such an extraordinarily exhilarating experience that when I began writing again in 1980 after my long period of retirement, I found myself tempting to dip into the world of that novel again, possibly for a short story or two, perhaps even for a whole new book. But I gave the idea no serious thought until July of 1981, when the Pacific Northwest writer and editor Jessica Amanda Salmonson asked me to write a story for an anthology called Heroic Visions that she was assembling. (At that time Jessica dated all her letters “9981.” I haven’t heard from her lately, so I don’t know whether she still regards herself as living in the hundredth century.) Heroic Visions was intended as an anthology of new stories of “high fantasy and heroic fantasy,” according to Jessica’s prospectus. High fantasy—Eddison, Dunsany, Charles Williams, William Morris—is something I read occasionally with pleasure, but have never intentionally written. Heroic fantasy—exemplified by such characters as Robert E. Howard’s Conan, Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, and Michael Moorcock’s Elric—is something that holds less interest for me as a reader, and though I suppose I could fake it as a writer if I saw some reason to do so, I have no true natural aptitude for it. So I really didn’t belong in Jessica’s book. Nor was the financial aspect of the project especially enticing. But I was just rediscovering writing again that year and was willing to do almost anything just then. I jotted at the bottom of the prospectus, “World of Son of Man. Two figures from the remote past are swept into the time-flux—a woman of 20th century, a man of—where? ancient China? Sumer?” and dropped Jessica a card saying I might possibly send her a story a few months from then, when I had finished the project—the collection known as Majipoor Chronicles that I was working on at the time.
The Palace at Midnight - 1980–82 - The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg Volume Five Page 35