Hagbard’s mouth fell open in completely genuine surprise. “Well, sink me!” he said, beginning to laugh.
Dawn was breaking; the Nine Unknown Men, most mysterious of all rock groups, ceremonially donned their football helmets and faced the East to chant:
There is only ONE God:
He is the SUN God:
Ra! Ra! Ra!
The bursts to the moon and to the planets are also not historic events. They are the major evolutionary breakthroughs…Today when we speak of immortality and of going to another world we no longer mean these in a theological or metaphysical sense. People are now striving for physical immortality. People are now traveling to other worlds. Transcendence is no longer a metaphysical concept. It has become reality.
—F. M. ESFANDIARY, Upwingers
THE TENTH TRIP
(OR MALKUTH FAREWELL TO PLANET EARTH)
Ye have locked yerselves up in cages of fear; and, behold, do ye now complain that ye lack freedom.
—LORD OMAR KHAYYAM RAVENHURST, K.S.C.,
“Epistle to the Paranoids,”
The Honest Book of Truth
As the earth turned on its axis and dawn reached city after city, hamlet after hamlet, farm after farm, mountain and valley after mountain and valley, it became obvious that May 1 would be bright and sunny almost everywhere. In Athens a classical scholar waking in the small cell where certain Platonic opinions had landed him felt a burst of unexpected hope and greeted Helios with rolling syllables from Sappho, crying through the bars, “Brodadaktylos Eos!” Birds, startled by the shout, took off from the jailyard below, filling the air with the flapping of their wings; the guards came and told him to shut up. He answered them gaily with “Polyphloisbois thalassas! You’ve taken everything else away from me, but you can’t take old Homer away!”
In Paris the Communists under the Red banner and the anarchists under the Black were preparing for the annual International Labor Solidarity Day, at which the usual factionalism and sectarianism would once again demonstrate the absolute lack of international labor solidarity. And in London, Berlin, a thousand cities, the Red and the Black would wave and the tongues of their partisans would wag, and the age-old longing for a classless society would once again manifest itself; while, in the same cities, an older name and an older purpose for that day would be commemorated in convent after convent and school after school where verses (far older than the name of Christianity) were sung to the Mother of God:
Queen of the Angels
Queen of the May
In the United States, alas, the usual celebrations of National Law Day had to be cancelled, since the rioting was not quite ended yet.
But everywhere, in Asia and Africa as in Europe and the Americas, the members of the Oldest Religion were returning from their festivals, murmuring “Blessed be” as they parted, secure in their knowledge that the Mother of God was indeed still alive and had visited them at midnight, whether they knew her as Dian, Dan, Tan, Tana, Shakti, or even Erzulie.
Queen of the Angels
Queen of the May
In Nairobi, Nkrumah Fubar picked up his mail from a friend employed at the post office. To his delight, American Express had relented and corrected their error, crediting him with his February 2 payment at last. This was, to his thinking, big magic, since the notification had been mailed from New York even before he began his geodesic spiels against the President of American Express on April 25. Obviously, such retroactive witchcraft was worthy of further investigation, and the key was the synergetic geometry of the Fuller tetrahedron in which he had kept his manikin during the spell-casting. Over breakfast, before leaving for the university, he opened Fuller’s No More Second-Hand God and again grappled with the arcane mathematics and metaphysics of omnidirectional halo. Finishing breakfast, he closed the book, shut his eyes, and tried to visualize the Fuller universe. The image formed, and, to his amazement and amusement, it was identical with certain symbols an old Kikuyu witch doctor had once drawn when explaining the doctrine of “fan-shaped destiny” to him.
As the book closed in Kenya, the drums of Orabi stopped abruptly. It was one in the morning there, and the visiting anthropologist, Indole Ringh, immediately asked how the dancers knew the ceremony was finished. “The danger is past,” an old Hopi told him patiently, “can’t you feel the difference in the air?” (Saul, Barney, and Markoff Chaney were racing toward Las Vegas in the rented Brontosaurus, while Dillinger was leisurely driving back toward Los Angeles.) In Honolulu, as the clocks struck nine the previous evening, Buckminster Fuller, trotting between airplanes, suddenly caught a glimpse of a new geodesic structure fully incorporating omnidirectional halo…And, after a four-hour flight eastward, landing in Tokyo at the “same time” he left Honolulu, he had a detailed sketch finished (it looked somewhat fan-shaped) as the NO SMOKING FASTEN SEAT BELT sign flashed. (It was four A.M. in Los Angeles, and Dillinger, safely home—he thought—heard the gunfire dying out in the distance. The President must already be withdrawing the National Guard, at least in part, he thought.) The phone by Rebecca’s bed rang just then, eight o’clock New York time, and she answered it to hear Molly Muldoon shout excitedly, “Saul and Barney are on TV. Turn it on—they’ve saved the country!”
In Las Vegas, Barney blinked under the TV lights and stared woodenly into the camera, while Saul kept his eyes on the interviewer and spoke in his kindly-family-doctor persona.
“Would you tell our viewers, Inspector Goodman, how you happened to be looking in Lehman Caves for the missing man?” The interviewer had the professional tone of all TV newscasters; his intonation wouldn’t have changed if he’d been asking “And why did you find our sponsor’s product more satisfactory?” or “How did you feel when you learned you had brain cancer?”
“Psychology,” Saul pronounced gravely. “The suspect was a procurer. That’s a definite psychological type, just as a safecracker, a bank robber, a child molester, and a policeman are definite types. I tried to think and feel like a procurer. What would such a man do with the whole government looking for him? Attempt an escape to Mexico or somewhere else? Never—that’s a bank-robber reaction. Procurers are not people who take risks or make bold moves against the odds. What would a procurer do? He would look for a hole to hide in.”
“The FBI crime lab definitely confirms that the man Inspector Goodman found is the missing plague-carrier, Carmel,” the interviewer threw in. (He had orders to repeat this every two minutes.) “Tell me, Inspector, why wouldn’t such a man hide in, say, an empty house, or a secluded cabin in the mountains?”
“He wouldn’t travel far,” Saul explained. “He’d be too paranoid—seeing police officers everywhere he went. And his imagination would vastly exaggerate the actual power of the government. There is only one law enforcement agent to each four hundred citizens in this country, but he would imagine the proportion reversed. The most secluded cabin would be too nerve-wracking for him. He’d imagine hordes of National Guardsmen and law officers of all sorts searching every square foot of woods in America. He really would. Procurers are very ordinary men, compared to hardened criminals. They think like ordinary people in most ways. The ordinary man and woman never commits a crime because they have the same exaggerated idea of our omnipotence.” Saul’s tone was neutral, descriptive, but in New York Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat: This was the new Saul talking, the one who was no longer on the side of law and order.
“So you just asked yourself, where’s a good-sized hole near Las Vegas?”
“That was all there was to it, yes.”
“The American people will certainly be grateful to you. And how did it happen that you got involved in this case? You’re with the New York Police Department, aren’t you?”
How will he answer that one? Rebecca wondered; just then the phone rang.
Turning down the TV sound, she lifted the phone and said, “Yes?”
“I can tell by your voice you’re the kind of woman who fully meets the criteria of my value sys
tem,” said August Personage. “I want to lick your ass and your pussy and have you piss on me and—”
“Well, that’s a most amazing story, Inspector Goodman,” the interviewer was saying. Oh, hell, Rebecca thought. Saul’s expression was so sincere that she knew he had just told one of the most outrageous lies of his life.
The phone rang again. With a pounce Rebecca grabbed it and shouted, “Listen, you creep, if you keep calling me—”
“That’s no way to talk to a man who just saved the world,” Saul’s voice said mildly.
“Saul! But you’re on television—”
“They videotaped that a half-hour ago. I’m at the Las Vegas Airport, about to take a jet to Washington. I’m having a conference with the President.”
“My God. What are you going to tell him?”
“As much,” Saul pronounced, “as an asshole like him can understand.”
(In Los Angeles, Dr. Vulcan Troll watched the seismograph move upward to Grade 2. That still wasn’t serious, but he scratched a note to the graduate student who would soon be replacing him. “If this jumps to 3, call me at my house.” Then he drove home, passing Dillinger’s bungalow, humming happily, thankful that the rioting was ending and the Guard being withdrawn. At the lab the graduate student, reading a paperback titled Carnal Orgy, didn’t notice when the graph jumped past 3 and hit 4.)
Danny Pricefixer, waking in Ingolstadt, glanced at his wristwatch. Noon. My God, he thought; sleeping so late was a major sin in his system of morality. Then he remembered a little of last night, and smiled contentedly, turning in the bed to kiss Lady Velkor’s neck. A huge black arm hung over the other shoulder, and a black hand, limp in sleep, held her breast. “My God!” Danny said out loud, remembering more, as Clark Kent sat up groggily and stared at him.
(“Smiling Jim” Treponema, at that moment, was navigating a very dangerous pass in the mountains of Northern California. Strapped to his back was a 6mm Remington Model 700 Bolt Action rifle with 6-power Bushnell telescope; a canteen of whiskey was hooked to one side of his belt, and a canteen of water to the other. He was perspiring from labor, in spite of the altitude, but he was one of the few happy people in the country, since he had been nowhere near a radio for three days and had missed the whole terror connected with Anthrax Leprosy Pi plague, the declaration of martial law, and the rioting and bombings. He was on his yearly vacation, free from the sewer of smut in which he was submerged forty-nine weeks of the year—the foulness and filth in which he heroically struggled daily, risking his soul for the good of his fellow citizens—and he was breathing clean air and thinking clean thoughts. Specifically, as an avid hunter, he had read that only one American eagle still survived, and he was determined to be immortalized in hunting literature as the man who killed it. He knew well, of course, how ecologists and conservationists would regard that achievement, but their opinions didn’t bother him. A bunch of fags, commies, and smutnuts: That was his estimate of those bleeding-heart types. Probably smoked dope, too. Not a man’s man among them. He shifted his rifle, which was pressing his sweat-soaked shirt uncomfortably, and climbed onward and upward.)
Mama Sutra stared at the central Tarot card in the Tree of Life: It was The Fool.
“Pardon me,” the little Italian tree said.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Fission Chips muttered. “I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life in conversation with trees.”
“I’m a tree worth talking to,” the dark-skinned tree with her hair in a bun persisted.
He squinted. “I know what you are,” he said finally, “half tree and half woman. Ergo, a dryad. Benefit of classical education.”
“Very good,” said the dryad. “But when you stop tripping, you’re going to crash. You’ll remember London and your job, and you’ll wonder how you’re going to explain the last month to them.”
“Somebody stole a month from me,” Chips agreed pleasantly. “A cynical old swine named the Dealy Lama. Or another feller named Toad. Bad lot. Shouldn’t go around stealing months.”
The tree handed him an envelope. “Try not to lose that,” she said. “It’ll make everybody in your office so happy that they’ll accept any story you make up to explain how it took you a month to get it.”
“What is it?”
“The name of every BUGGER agent in the British government. Together with the false names they use for the bank accounts where they keep all the money they can’t account for. And the account numbers and the names of the banks, too. In one nice package. All it needs is a red ribbon.”
“I think my leg is being pulled again,” said Chips. But he was coming down, and he opened the envelope and peered at the contents. “This is real?” he asked.
“They won’t be able to account for the money,” the tree assured him. “Some very interesting confessions will be obtained.”
“Who the devil are you?” Chips asked, seeing a teen-age Italian girl and not a tree.
“I’m your holy guardian angel,” she said.
“You look like an angel,” Chips admitted grudgingly, “but I don’t believe any of this. Time travel, talking trees, giant toads, none of it. Somebody slipped me a drug.”
“Yes, somebody slipped you a drug. But I’m your holy guardian angel, and I’m slipping you this envelope, and it’ll make everything all right back in London. All you have to do is make up a halfway reasonable lie …”
“I was held prisoner in a BUGGER dungeon with a beautiful Eurasian love-slave,” Chips began improvising
“Very good,” she said. “They won’t believe it, but they’ll think you believe it. That’s good enough.” “Who are you really?”
But the tree only repeated, “Don’t lose that envelope,” and walked away, turning into an Italian teen-ager again, and then into a gigantic woman carrying a golden apple. Hauptmann, chief of field operations for the Federal Republic of Germany’s police, looked around the Fuehrer Suite in disgust. He had arrived from Bonn and headed straight for the Donau-Hotel, determined to make some sense of the scandals, tragedies, and mysteries of the previous night. The first suspect he grilled was Freiherr Hagbard Celine, sinister jet-set millionaire, who had come to the rock festival with a large entourage. Celine and Hauptmann talked quietly in one corner of the suite of the Donau-Hotel, while the cameras of police photographers clicked away behind them.
Hauptmann was tall and thin, with close-cropped silver-gray hair, long, vulpine features, and piercing eyes. “Dreadful tragedy, the death of your President last night,” he said. “My condolences. Also for the unhappy state of affairs in your country.” Actually, Hauptmann was delighted to see the United States of America falling into chaos. He had been fifteen at the end of World War II, had been called to the colors as the Allies advanced on German soil, and had seen his country overrun by American troops. All of this made a deeper and more lasting impression on him than the U.S.-West German cooperation that developed later.
“Not my president, not my country,” said Hagbard quickly. “I was born in Norway. I lived in the U.S. for quite some time, and did become a citizen for a while, when I was much younger than I am now. But I renounced my American citizenship years ago.”
“I see,” said Hauptmann, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his distaste for Hagbard’s indistinct sense of national identity. “And what country today has the honor of claiming you as a citizen?”
Smiling, Hagbard reached for the inside pocket of the brass-buttoned navy-blue yachtsman’s blazer he had worn for the occasion. He handed his passport to Hauptmann, who took it and grunted with surprise.
“Equatorial Guinea.” He looked up, frowning. “Fernando Poo!”
“Quite so,” said Hagbard, a white-toothed grin breaking through his dark features. “I will accept your expression of sympathy for the sad state of affairs in that country.”
Hauptmann’s dislike of this Latin plutocrat grew deeper. The man was undoubtedly one of those unprincipled international adventurers who carried citizenship the
way many freighters carried Panamanian registry. Celine’s wealth was probably equal to or greater than the total wealth of Equatorial Guinea. Yet it was likely that he had done nothing for his adopted country other than bribe a few officials to obtain the citizenship. Equatorial Guinea had split asunder, nearly plunging the world into a third and final war, and yet here was this parasitical Mediterranean fop, driving to a rock festival in a Bugatti Royale with a host of drones, yes-men, flunkies, minions, whores, dope fiends, and all-round social liabilities. Disgusting!
Hagbard looked around. “This room is a pretty foul place to have a conversation. How can you stand that smell? It’s nauseating me.”
Pleased to be causing some discomfort to this man, whom he disliked more and more as he got to know him, Hauptmann settled back in the red armchair, his teeth bared in a smile. “You will forgive me, Freiherr Celine, I find it necessary to be here at this time and also necessary to talk to you. However, I would have thought this peculiar odor of fish would not be unpleasant to you. Perhaps your nautical dress has led me astray.”
Hagbard shrugged. “I am a seaman of sorts. But just because a man likes the sea doesn’t mean he wants to sit next to a ton of dead mackerel. What do you think it is, anyway?”
“I have no idea. I was hoping you could identify it for me.”
“Just dead fish, that’s all it smells like to me. I’m afraid you may be expecting more from me all around than I can possibly provide. I suppose you think I can tell you a lot about last night. Just what are you trying to find out?”
“First of all, I want to find out what actually happened. What we have, I think, is a case of drug abuse on a colossal scale. And we—the Western world in general—have had too many of those in recent years. Apparently there is not a single person who was present at this festival who did not partake of some of this soft drink dosed with LSD.”
The illuminatus! trilogy Page 72