GENESIS (Projekt Saucer)

by W. A. Harbinson

  ‘Will this do?’ she asked quietly.

  Richard hardly saw the room, just the bed, the covers turned back, a lamp burning on a table beside the bed, a pool of light in the shadows.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘Exhausted. That other door leads to the bathroom. In there you’ll find towels… pyjamas.’

  Richard nodded, but said nothing, too nervous, confused, mesmerized by her eyes, by that green, opaque glittering, by the long line of her body, the black dress, the shadowed light all around her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she murmured. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right. Have a good sleep and then you’ll feel better. We’ll just stay here. We’ll wait.’

  He wanted to know what she meant, what she thought they were waiting for. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, now afraid of his own voice. The woman stepped forward, put her hand on the doorknob, stepped back and pulled the door as she went, disappeared, the door closing.

  Richard stood there in the silence, in a noise that seemed like silence, his ears ringing, the closed door in his eyes, feeling tense and light-headed. He stood there a long time. He heard her walking away. She stopped walking, a door opened and closed, and then the silence was total.

  Richard sighed, feeling dazed, still frightened, then turned around to have a good look at the room, a spacious room, neat and comfortable. He studied it carefully, drank it in and saw nothing, just the bed and the lamp on the table in a window-framed darkness. He crossed the room to the window. Feeling nervous, he looked out. He saw the far edge of a patio, a low wall, a few steps, a flat lawn disappearing in the darkness, some trees, a small garden shed. He looked up at the sky. The moon glided beneath the stars. He shivered and turned away, feeling desolate, then went into the bathroom.

  He turned the light on. Blue and green tiles, blue rugs. A toilet, a marble bath and a shower, expensive and tasteful. He turned the light off. He didn’t feel like a bath or shower. He crossed over to the bed and stood there, then went back to the bathroom. He turned the light on. It was bright and stung his eyes. He used the toilet and then took his clothes off and stepped under the shower.

  He turned the water on to hot, let it scald him and revive him, remained there for a very long time, then turned it off, dried himself. He walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him; naked, he went to the bed and lay down, sighing forlornly. He lay there for some time, hearing the silence of the house. He heard the wind blowing outside the window, then he turned out the bedside lamp.

  The darkness was divided. Moonlight fell in through the window. Richard heard the moaning wind, felt the pounding of his heart, looking up, looking around, seeing the ceiling, the looming walls, his fears multiplying and joining and becoming a blanket. He suddenly felt claustrophobic, rubbed his face with his hands, saw the moonlight trickling over a cupboard and a wicker chair. He lay there, breathing deeply, forcing himself to stay calm. He wanted to get off the bed and leave the room, but he just couldn’t do it. What was happening? Why stay? He rubbed his face and closed his eyes. He saw the moonlight – or imagined he saw the moonlight – and then it seemed like a dream.

  The door clicked as it opened. Richard opened his eyes. He looked around – or imagined he looked around – and saw her shadowy outline. She was standing in the doorway, silhouetted in yellow light. She was naked beneath her nightgown, a short nightgown, transparent, and he saw her slim waist, her broad hips, her long legs parted slightly. She didn’t say a word, just stood there, breathing evenly. Richard rubbed his face and then licked his lips and blinked a few times. The woman closed the door and padded toward him and lay down beside him.

  Flesh. The warmth of skin. There were dreams within the dream: the moonlight falling on the white sheets, on the edge of a pillow, on a flash of red hair, the gleaming eyes, the pink tongue on the wet lips. They came together and merged, their limbs colliding, embracing, warm skin, willing flesh, her flattened breasts, his sweating spine, searching fingers, scratching fingernails, outspread thighs, thrusting groin, a dream within a dream, shadows writhing in the moonlight, rising up and coming down and rolling over and biting like animals… He had to have her, couldn’t stop, either dreaming or awake, not caring, not knowing, seeking release from his fear, a child again, helpless, lips and tongue on the nipple, wanting solace, revenge, forgiveness, final answers, his hands searching for her breasts, his belly sliding on her belly, thrusting up, trying to hide himself inside her, sweat and blood, life’s reality… Was it really happening? Did it matter? The red hair across his eyes. Her lips sliding down his chest, down his stomach, soft and moist, opening wide to receive him… Release. No more fear. He looked up and saw the moonlight. He closed his eyes and let himself be devoured, flowing out, pouring into her.

  The moonlight. The darkness. Stars swimming in the void. He lay back and dissolved and disappeared and defied space and time. To touch and be touched. The beating blood and pounding heart. To touch and to feel and to know and to drift toward peace. He remembered her touch. He awakened, still remembering. He blinked and rubbed his eyes and looked around him, his body still burning.

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right…’

  Richard saw her in the doorway, her back turned toward him, naked beneath the white transparent gown, slipping out of the room. Then she was gone. He felt her warmth on his skin. He blinked again and looked hard at the door and saw the light on the balcony. Then the fear returned. He sat up straight on the bed. The moonlight fell into the room, met the light from the doorway, illuminating the necklace she had dropped before entering his bed.

  The fear slithered in slyly, crept over him, enveloped him, turned to ice that first froze and then burned to leave him sweaty and shaking. He glanced wildly around the room. The moonlight fell in through the window. He felt the fear and it forced him from the bed and made him rush to the door.

  He saw the woman on the stairs, walking down toward the hallway, still naked beneath the white transparent gown, her lean body outlined. Richard watched her, terrified. She moved as if in a trance. The short nightgown rippled over her breasts, on her thighs, as she padded down on long legs. Richard took hold of the bannister, seeing pale light on her face. He shouted at her – someone shouting; someone urging her to come back – but she continued on her way down the stairs, her gaze fixed on the front door.

  Richard glanced over the balcony. The lights in the hall were dim. The front door was open, moonlight falling on the hall, a small figure silhouetted on the porch outside, featureless, not moving.

  The fear grabbed Richard and crushed him, made him step back from the bannister, pressing his spine to the wall and glancing around him, paralyzed, his head spinning. Then he suddenly moved again. He felt a need to touch the woman. She was real, a vibrant presence, flesh and blood, and she was all that he had. Richard hurried toward the stairs. He saw the woman in the hallway. The figure standing on the porch had disappeared, but the moonlight still poured in. Richard cried out again. The woman didn’t respond. Richard hurried down the stairs, his heart pounding, as she walked out the door.

  Richard froze again. He held the bannister with one hand. He looked down at the door, at the moonlight, the fear slicing through him. Then he moved again, scarcely knowing that he was doing so, his sole thought for the woman, for her presence, for that touch of reality. He reached the bottom of the stairs. Moonlight fell across the floor. He stepped forward and saw the woman on the lawn, the darkness swimming around her.

  Richard walked to the door. The fear was choking him, draining him. He reached the door and stepped out onto the porch and saw the woman ahead of him. She was in the middle of the lawn. She stopped walking and just stood there. The wind blew around her, pressed the nightgown to her body, her hips and her legs emphasized in singular beauty. Then she slowly turned around. She was looking directly at him. He saw her pale face, her red hair, and her strange, haunting smile.

  Richard stoo
d on the porch, felt the wind and its ice. He was draining out of himself, the fear destroying him, dulling his senses. The woman stood there on the lawn. Her red hair blew in the wind. He heard the wind and then he heard the humming sound, felt the sound, was crushed by it. He stepped forward slowly, keeping his eyes on the woman. He saw the line of trees behind her, the light appearing beyond the trees, a hazy light that rose and spread out to become a pulsating fan.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Richard whispered.

  After that, he said nothing. There was nothing to say. He knew that it had ended, that it was over, and that he could not turn back. No turning: the fear. No resisting: the pain. Richard shook his head and licked his dry lips and stepped onto the lawn.

  The woman was waiting for him, her arms hanging down by her sides. He stopped when he was halfway toward her, searched in vain for her green eyes. A trick of light and shadow. Richard blinked and looked again. He saw the smile on her face, that ghastly grimace, but her eyes were missing. Richard shook his head and shivered. He stared hard at the waiting woman. He stepped forward and saw that her eyes were closed, that she was standing there dreaming.

  Richard almost stopped breathing. He felt the pounding of his heart. He walked over to the woman and touched her, but her eyes didn’t open. Then the fear really shook him. He stared wildly at the sky. He saw the moon gliding under the stars, a few dark, drifting clouds. Richard looked past the woman. He saw the light above the trees. The light pulsated and formed a hazy fan, a spectral glow in the dark night.

  Richard started to weep. The tears rolled down his cheeks. He heard the sound,

  felt the sound, was crushed by it, and he clenched both his fists. Then he saw them coming toward him. They were faceless in the darkness. There were three of them, all of them small, spreading out, walking slowly.

  Richard stared at them. The fear slithered down his spine. He forgot the woman by his side, forgot Jenny and the doctors, thought of nothing but the dread that was embodied in the men coming toward him. The tears rolled down his cheeks. He saw his history dissolving. He watched the men spreading out, coming toward him, and he knew he must join them. His grief and fear combined. His head tightened and throbbed. The men advanced out of the darkness, the light fanning out behind them, their shadows shifting and falling before them, creeping over the damp grass. Richard stood still. The men approached him and stopped. They were small and they wore silvery masks and were encased in gray coveralls. Richard stood there, transfixed. One of the men walked up to him. The man reached up and touched Richard’s neck and the fear fell away from him.

  ‘Yes!’ Richard said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  New York in December was a bitch of a city, the wind blowing like ice along the canyons of concrete, stabbing at Stanford’s eyes and raw face, his Californian blood frozen. He cursed and turned his collar up, saw the bright lights of Broadway, breathed the dust and the exhaust fumes of the traffic, appalled by the clamour. He wasn’t in a good mood, hadn’t been for a long time; he now lived with a cold, suppressed rage that often threatened to choke him.

  ‘New York,’ he murmured. ‘Shitsville.’ He didn’t know what was happening to him, was lost in his obsessions, haunted by the lights of Galveston, by the girl on the porch, by what he had witnessed in the Caribbean, by the mysteries that increased every day and made sleep more difficult.

  Stanford felt the freezing wind. He cursed again and walked faster. The traffic ran along Broadway, lights flashing, horns honking, the sidewalks crowded with junkies and prostitutes and pimps, passengers tumbling out of cabs, out of restaurants and theaters, the neon signs winking brilliantly in the night, a kaleidoscopic display. Stanford studied it with distaste. He had never liked New York. He cursed again and then turned into a disco-bar, hurrying down the steep steps.

  The bar was in a basement, beyond a silver-gleaming arch, past the blond girl who sat behind a desk and cash register. The girl was wearing a negligible halter, her breasts ballooning dramatically, her tanned belly exposed, her crotch emphasized by hot pants, long legs in black stockings crossed languidly. Green lipstick. False eyelashes. Stanford paid her and went in, passing a man in black leather, the amplified rock music exploding over him, almost deafening him, strobe lights flashing on and off the small stage where a rock group was screaming.

  ‘Are you alone?’ someone asked him.

  ‘What’s that?’ Stanford said. He looked around to see a shock of purple hair, rainbow eyes, the girl a cross between an Apache Indian and a Buddhist monk, her lips lined with glitter dust and pouting invitingly, blowing smoke in his face.

  ‘Thirty bucks,’ she said. ‘Make it fifty for all night. We go to my place and I’ll show you some tricks that you’ll never forget.’

  Stanford silently moved on, pushing his way through the crowd, brushing against creamy breasts and jolting asses in hot pants, the air smelling of nicotine and marijuana and sweat, the strobe lights flashing on and off the heads that bobbed up and down frantically. Stanford just kept going, concentrating on the bar. He saw phosphorescent shirts and tight denims and sunglasses, the girls elegant and tatty, displaying tits and belly buttons, the men rattling with necklaces and bracelets, their talk loud and pretentious. Scaduto wasn’t at the bar. Stanford moved on, looking elsewhere. He cut across the dance floor, the band shrieking above him, the dancers gyrating on all sides, asses jolting like pistons. He ducked waving hands and whipping long hair and finally reached the far side. A line of girls held the wall up, looking sexy or limp, and he avoided their eyes and went past them, entering another, marginally quieter room.

  The band sounded more distant here, the sound muffled, the talk clearer, customers crushed between a parallel line of booths that led back to a second bar. He saw Scaduto at the bar, unmistakable, flamboyant dressed, wearing a fringed buckskin jacket, very tight purple pants, knee-length boots, a mess of chains around his neck, hanging over the counter. Approaching him from behind, Stanford, grinning, grabbed a fistful of his long blond hair.

  ‘What the fuck – ?’ Scaduto yelped.

  ‘Hi, hotshot,’ Stanford said. ‘Why the hell did you decide to meet me here? I can hardly hear myself speak.’

  Swivelling around on his bar stool, Scaduto grinned crazily and slapped Stanford’s shoulder, making the latter release his hair. ‘You old shitface!’ Scaduto exclaimed, patting his disheveled hair down. ‘How you been? Good to see you.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ Stanford said, glancing around him. ‘You’re getting a bit old for this, aren’t you? I mean, these girls… they’re all kids. Jailbait.’

  Scaduto rolled his eyes and grinned again, formed his right hand into a fist, pumped it up and down above his groin and groaned loudly, theatrically.

  ‘That’s the idea,’ he said. ‘A guy doesn’t get any younger. At forty you’re almost put out to grass, and these kids soothe the pain. I like ’em tight, Stanford. God, yes, I like ’em tight! Some day I’m gonna find one so tight, they’ll have to cut my dick off.’

  ‘You want a drink?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘I’ve already got one, old pal.’

  ‘Have another,’ Scaduto said. ‘I’m only in town for one night. Let’s have an old-fashioned reunion. We’ll throw us a big one.’

  Scaduto slapped the counter with one hand. ‘Goddammit!’ he exclaimed. What a pleasant surprise. It’s been a long time, old buddy.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘A bourbon on the rocks will do for now. A chaser to follow my beer. Fuck it, the night’s just begun; let’s have us a good time.’

  There was only one barman, moving fast but overworked, serving two or three groups at a time, his head down, his brow furrowed. Stanford tried to attract his attention, failed, tried again, started wondering if the barman was ignoring him or if the noise had just deafened him. Scaduto came to his rescue, getting off his stool to bend over the counter, his long hair falling around his face. ‘Hey, greaser!’ he bawled. �
�What the fuck? Are you jerking off back there?’ The barman glanced at him, face swarthy above a bow tie, glared hard and then recognized Scaduto and broke out in a grin. ‘Does it feel good?’ Scaduto bawled. ‘You got blisters on your fingers? Two bourbons on the rocks, you fucking greaser, or I won’t pay the check.’ The barman grinned and shook his head, poured the drinks, disappeared, and Scaduto grinned at Stanford and laughed as if he just couldn’t stop.

  ‘Here’s to you,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Fucking A,’ Scaduto responded. He drank some bourbon and wiped his lips with the back of his free hand, his glassy gaze slipping sideways. ‘Just look at it,’ he said. ‘All that tight cunt, all that honey. I swear, the young aren’t what they used to be – they just can’t get enough of it.’

  ‘You’re kidding yourself,’ Stanford said. ‘You’re just a middleaged roué. You can’t stand the thought of being forty and now you’re making an ass of yourself. It’s called the male menopause.’

  Scaduto leered as he glanced around him, almost falling off his stool, then he reached out and grabbed Stanford’s shoulder and grinned like a lunatic.

  ‘Damned right,’ he said. ‘I stand unzipped and corrected. I’m a middle-aged prick, a wilting cock, and I’m having a great time. So how are you, Stanford? What have you been up to lately? How long’s it been? Five years? Ten years? I hear you’re still working with that guy, Epstein.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Stanford said. ‘I’m still with Professor Epstein. You and I, we last met in ’69, as I recall, when you finally left the NICAP.’

  Scaduto’s stomach was flopping over his broad, glittering belt and his gaudy, flowered shirt was too tight. He was not ageing gracefully.

  ‘Great days,’ he said, grinning. ‘I had a damned good time. Wandering over the whole country, meeting folk, seeing places, chasing UFOs like they were going out of fashion – a great time, a fond memory.’ Clearly drunk already, he almost fell off his stool, but steadied himself and then stared curiously at Stanford’s shoulder bag. ‘Hey, what you got there, pal?’