The Dome in the Forest

by Paul O. Williams

  “Yes. We found Butto later, down on the seventh level, chanting, heavily drugged. Would he be behind it? You know him better than anyone else. What do you think? Do we have a paranoid on our hands?”

  Susan considered this, touching her fingertips to the dulcimer box. “I don’t know that, of course,” she said. “But here is something to think about. Obviously there was a rivalry between the two, but it wasn’t only for control of the comps, or their loyalty. It wasn’t only in their shared work. They were both somehow in love with Eolyn.”

  Eolyn snorted, but Susan slid off the sleep pad and moved to her panel commands. One by one she flicked a series of images up on the screen, mostly group stills of the present principals in various activities. Going through the series was a common theme. Both men looked at, stayed close to, or even stood almost touching Eolyn.

  “They had followed the standard suppressant procedures, I think,” said Susan. “But Eolyn would have been an absolute dream of a woman in the ancient world. Almost every normal, unsuppressed male would have felt his pulse rise as she passed, I think.”

  Here Susan put on the screen a series of pictures of models from ancient times, including recorded images of Vogue and The New Yorker, and a series from the slickest ancient porno journals, riffling through the pictures rapidly, concentrating on resemblances to Eolyn. The echoes she had found were striking.

  “My record is incomplete, of course, including only material in the company library at the time of the blast. Anyhow, I got interested in the subject, especially knowing Butto so well, and seeing him growing gloomier and more despairing, even concluding that he himself didn’t know why. He sank deeper into drug use. I have gone over the records—the known ones—of his experiments on himself. Now look at these and see if you see what I do.”

  Again Susan used her light screen, putting up a series of formulas. Thornton squinted, and Dexter whistled lightly.

  “Now,” said Susan, “let’s do some combinations, knowing residual times for some of these.” The screen showed further formulas, including those for some of the most primitive hallucinogens.

  “The comps will be rousing soon,” said Dexter. “Poor Butto. And poor Zeller. You never gave them a chance, Eo.” He laughed nervously.

  “The comps were clearly for Butto and saw Zeller as a threat. I was simply studying something I found curious. I had no idea it would lead to anything like this. Perhaps they did away with Celeste, too. I think at least I have shown you one thing—we don’t really pay sincere attention to one another.”

  “Yes. Well, let’s get back out to the comps,” said Dexter. Eolyn preceded him out the panel. As they left, Thornton stayed back, smiling at Susan. Then he leaned down and kissed her.

  She laughed. “Better take some suppressant, old Thorn.”

  “I think you made a point. I really do.”

  “It is odd, but I have ceased caring. I have only one wish left before I die.”

  “But I am too old to love. You nearly said so.”

  “Quiet. I would like to leave the dome and walk free on the earth, even though it is radioactive, even though it is empty and blasted. I haven’t long to live. I would like to be the first of the dome people to leave. I would not care if I died in only two or three hundred units.”

  “You may have heard that I think Celeste has left the dome. But I have to go and save 14 from further machinations.”

  “Celeste has left? You can’t go. No. I think she is recycled. By Butto’s comps. Come now, Thorn.” As he hurried down the corridor, she called after him, “I haven’t told you the worst thing.”

  Thornton paused, then called back, “Thorn, indeed. We will exchange stories later. It will give us something to live for.” He laughed over his shoulder. Susan stood in her panelway regarding him, but she made no attempt to traverse the levels to the decontam room.

  Meanwhile, the leaking oil had begun to pool under the levels, lying on a clay subsoil and limestone outcrop. At one point it began to wick up a dry timber, forgotten in the building over eleven hundred years before, and protected from rot by pressurized chemical treatment. The tip of the old beam just penetrated the one section below the seventh level—the low-pressure reserve-oxygen storage room. It was a slow process, but it had begun.

  V

  TOR sat on a promontory south of Pelbarigan, watching the sun move west, watching ants legging in a line across the rock, a wren flitting into the thicket below, then out, then in again. He took apart an iris flower, petal by petal, laying the petals out in a row on his knee, examining their shapes idly. He longed to be gone west to find his men.

  Blu would be axeman this summer. Blu stood as tall as Tor himself, and was as wiry. Blu moved nearly as fast, too, as their games of Na, na showed, and he could draw the heaviest of bows and put an arrow dead where he wanted it. So Blu would take over. No. Tor knew something was missing. Was it his own extremism, the wild love of the prairie wind that so infused him the men could feel it and respond? Tor didn’t know. He did know they would follow him anywhere. He had that peculiar thing all the best Shumai leaders had. What it was puzzled even him. It came as a full giving of himself to any situation, that instant reading of emergencies, that knowing precisely what to do.

  Blu had some of that, too. But it was a gift, this just knowing. Tor wanted to go, but Celeste would not get well. She lay in Pelbarigan below, sick with a succession of sicknesses, and when she seemed to get over one, another would come. She called out for him as she tossed with fever, or lay listless, and he dared not fail to be there, though he did nothing for her but be there, and pray quietly for her in a halting way. The grave-faced old woman, the Haframa did everything, treating Tor like an inconvenient drug, which had to be administered now and then, in a gulp, when Celeste needed it.

  But he could not stand the city itself for long, with its old stairways, its mustiness and dark corridors, so he stayed high on the bluffs, roaming the woods, watching the small horse herd the Pelbar had brought from Northwall, doing nothing, or seeing how his nephew was coming on. He had begun carving drinking noggins, with the elaborate interlaced patterns that the old Shumai imparted to their crafts when they grew slack and past the time of running. He felt old. Good Sertine, could a mere wisp of a strange girl so change his life? Yes. For Celeste, the poor waif, he would stay. And more, for what Celeste meant. She was from the dome, though she refused to admit it. She was, in fact, too sick to say much of anything half the time. Tor vaguely feared the dome.

  The afternoon was waning, and far out over the river the herons flew in small groups from their feeding places in the shallows on the west shore toward the islands with tall trees. From far below, Tor could see Dailith, the guardsman, coming up the path. So Celeste must have wanted him again. Tor brushed off the iris petals and met Dailith on the path.

  “Celeste?” he asked.

  “Yes. It looks like chicken pox this time. She is all sores and very frightened.”

  “She has neglected her childhood diseases. They must have none in that dome.”

  “Or whatever. Come, anyhow. I will see some supper is brought to you. Everything she gets is very bad. She has enough spots for four children.”

  Tor trotted down the path, Dailith behind, fearing to try the pace of the axeman on the loose rock. The guardsmen at the gate watched him come up to them as they leaned on the great blocks of wall stone. Ahroe stood there and reached out an arm to him. They grasped wrists as he passed. Garet squatted near her, building an elaborate structure of short twigs.

  When Tor entered the room where Celeste lay, so silently he startled the Haframa, who jerked her head, Celeste barely turned. Then she reached her hand to him and he took it.

  “I am going to die, am I not?”

  “Die? No. You are getting your sicknesses all at once. I have told you that. It is normal enough. All children just have to be steel, be an oak stick. You can bear up. I know you can.”

  “It is too awful, Tor. You will not go away,
will you?”

  “Not completely out of earshot, anyway. I will stay here and grow soft.”

  “I am sorry. And I am not a child.”

  “All right, chipmunk. You are not a child, though you were one just a little while ago. There is just—well, never mind.”

  “What is it?”

  “We can talk when you are better.”

  “No, Tor. I am so bored I can’t wait that long. Do you know there are 397 stones in this curved wall and ceiling? The angles of each stone in the curve vary between 93 and 102 degrees.”

  “I am the wrong man to impress with that information, chipmunk.”

  Celeste was silent for quite a time. Finally she said, “What were you going to say?”

  “Well, it is about the dome people. I may be a wild man, looked askance at by this good woman, but I can think at least a little. I know you won’t talk about them, but the problem is this—the dome will fall soon because of the erosion. They have to get out. We have to help them. Are they going to get sick like you?”

  Celeste was silent, her eyes full of tears. She withdrew her hand.

  “Look here, little bird. We only want to help. Something will have to be done. There is no other way. What about this? You tell me what we should do.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “How can I say? We ought to have reasons to fear the dome, you know.”

  “You will have to go away now and let me be sick. Let me die.”

  Tor leaned over and put his forehead to hers, frowning comically from up against her. “It is something that will have to be decided, small one. We cannot just avoid a decision. I thought you would like to help us make it. Who could help more?”

  “Maybe I am only a child. There are so many people here. It is all so strange. You know so little. It is like stepping back before the time of the ancients.” Celeste sighed and pulled at her blanket. Tor looked at Thya the Haframa, who shook her head slightly.

  “We will not talk of it anymore now.”

  “You will not go away, will you?”

  “No. I will stay. Perhaps I could go get something to read. Haframa, would the priest of Aven lend me that roll again?”

  The old woman smiled. “She is a minister,” she said. “And she gave me a spare copy to keep here so you could read it.” She handed it to Tor, who took it and sat by the curved stone window, frowning as he read, slowly, his lips moving, while Celeste gazed at him, her eyes finally closing in sleep.

  Tor read laboriously until the light failed him, and, looking up, saw that the Haframa had gone. He was startled. He was used to noticing such things. What was happening to him? An axeman, he was supposed to feel the presence of a wild bull over a hill. It was all so peaceful, this place, and this concept of the God, Aven, kindness and love itself. He shuddered involuntarily. Was it a dream? And did it result in the Pelbar shut-in life? He wondered how it would function on the plains.

  His mind, reaching out, thought of the dome, and again he felt the taste of danger. It was unknown, a mask of stone. Who knew what kind of a face it hid? Tor felt the smoke of foreboding, and suddenly wished he were out on the uplands of Kan, watching the unencumbered sky.

  Steps padded on the stairs, and Tristal entered with a lamp and some steaming stew. He looked grave when he saw Celeste, and sat quietly, eating with his uncle in silence. When Celeste stirred, Tristal moved to feed her, but she wanted Tor to. The axeman caught the boy’s eye with a look that told him not to mention this among the Shumai. Then he cradled the girl’s head and fed her the way a father does a baby, opening his mouth in sympathy with hers. She ate, stirred, and sat up, then, seeing Tristal, drew the rough blanket up to her neck. He turned his head.

  “Tor,” she said abruptly. “If you will get the Protector, then I will talk about it. I am afraid. But I will tell you some things about the dome and levels. Perhaps Tristal will get her.”

  “She is one of those persons one goes to. One does not summon her.”

  “Then I suppose we will have to wait until I can go.”

  “I will try to get her,” said Tristal, leaving. And so the Jestana, eating alone in her chambers, suddenly looked up and saw the Shumai boy, who had come unannounced and unperceived, thin and pale, standing before her.

  She paused. “What? . . .” she began. Then she added, “The strange girl. Did she die, then?”

  “No. The girl said she will talk about the dome and to get you. I am sorry. Tor said you didn’t go to people, but they came to you. But she is too sick to come.”

  “Yes. Well, sit down. Can you eat some of that pudding? There is far too much for me. What is your name again, young man?”

  “Tristal.”

  “Yes. Tristal. Let me finish here. You may sit with me if you will. Then you may summon the guardsman and we will go to her together.”

  Then Tristal, in a rough tunic, still dirty from his day’s work with Stel, sat with the Protector of Pelbarigan as she ate, while the guardsman stood unknowing by the door outside, dreaming, counting the wall stones, humming, reviewing the long-sword drill.

  The Protector’s sentry was startled when three guardsmen ran down the hallway, rushed by her and through the Protector’s anteroom, where old Druk sat musing at the wall, and burst into the sitting room where the Protector and Tristal were eating. Tristal started, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

  The guardsmen drew up sharply, breathing hard. “We beg your pardon, Protector, but . . . the young Shumai was seen to jump the wall and swing . . . down to your balcony from the orchard side. We feared for you.”

  The Jestana smiled. “You may stand at ease. Thank you for your solicitude. This is Tristal.” She turned to the Shumai. “I think perhaps you had better explain to us all why you didn’t come through the door. These things are important, you know.”

  Tristal sat straight and put down his pudding. “I—I was coming from Celeste’s room, and I knew that I would have to walk way around, down two levels, then pass through all those corridors to get here. It seemed much simpler and shorter. I am truly sorry. I didn’t know I did something wrong.”

  The guardcaptain looked at him hard-mouthed. “Are you not aware that this is the Protector of Pelbarigan and that she must be accorded more respect?”

  Tristal looked pinched and frightened, then dropped his eyes. “But she is the mother of Jestak,” he murmured.

  The Protector shot the guardcaptain an enigmatic look. “Yes,” she said. “The mother of Jestak. Perhaps, Ras, you will leave two guardsmen. When we finish eating, I am going to visit the strange girl in her room.” She raised her hand. “No. You mustn’t object. I am sure the girl is truly too ill to come to the councilroom. She may have decided to tell us something we need to know. Now, Tristal, you must promise me and the guardsmen not to come down through the balconies again, but only the regular way if you wish to see me. If you missed that jump, you would fall all the way to the orchard. Besides, it is not proper. Do you understand?”

  Tristal said he did, almost in a whisper. Then he looked out the window and said, “It is an easy jump. Even I would never miss it. But I will not do it again.”

  The guardcaptain shot him another look, and she and her two guardsmen withdrew.

  “You like Celeste, don’t you, Tristal.”

  He looked at her. “Yes. I don’t understand it. She has no use for me.”

  “You may be fortunate. We know nothing of her. No. Don’t disagree. All things may not be decided by the heart. Even though you aren’t an old politician like me, you are involved in politics. We all are. Don’t worry. There is plenty of time to find friends. When my son was your age, he hadn’t even begun to think of such things. But boys come in all kinds, and I can see you are one of the lonelier kinds. I am in my lonelier period now, too. I am a widow and my son lives at Northwall. I have a grandson and two granddaughters, but I seldom see them. I am glad you came by, and I hope you will come again.”

  Tristal looked at her doubtfully.

&n
bsp; “I mean it, Tristal. I know quite a bit about boys, you know. You won’t hesitate to come and see me, will you? I may well be too busy much of the time, but I am sure to have some time. Now we must not keep everyone waiting.” She stood and held out her arm so she could lean on Tristal as they went to the anteroom where the guardsmen waited.

  Light entered the room with the Protector, for both guardsmen carried flaring lamps that sent orange flickerings around the room until they were set down and burned steadily. Tor stood for the Jestana and bowed slightly.

  A guardsman moved a chair close to the bed, and, leaning on Tristal, the Jestana lowered herself into it heavily. “Now, Tristal, would you mind waiting outside with the guardsmen? I wish to have a word with you later.”

  Tor, who had said nothing, flicked his eyes to his nephew, to the guardsmen, then back to the Protector. “Protector, this is Celeste. Celeste, are you awake enough? This is the Protector of Pelbarigan, Adai the Jestana. You should be honored because she came all the way up here to see you.”

  “Yes,” said Celeste.

  “Tristal has told me that you wish to say some things to me.”

  “Yes. I—I am sorry. I am confused. There is too much newness. Everything is different, even this sickness. I understand it, of course, but it is not pleasant.”

  “What do you understand, Celeste?”

  “I admit that I come from the dome. We call it the dome and levels. We have an environment free of dangerous microorganisms. I have been inoculated for some diseases, but most of our antitoxin was destroyed in an accident, so we have carefully preserved the rest, and it was not available to me. Besides, we had become careless because, I suppose, we never felt we would leave the dome in our lifetimes. I am the first.”

  “Yes. I don’t understand much of what you said, Celeste. Perhaps you could put the first part in plain words.”

  “The microorganisms?”

  “Yes. It sounded as if you said that you could take some drugs to prevent your ever getting certain diseases.”

  “Not drugs. Inoculations. You know nothing of microorganisms?”