“Stop, stop the wheel!” cried Mr. Cooger, a man, a different man and voice this time, coming around in panic, going up into the roaring hissing sky of the Ferris wheel. The wind blew through the high dark wheel spokes. “Stop, stop, oh, please stop the wheel!”
Hank leaped up from the sprawled hunchback. He started in on the brake mechanism, hitting it, jamming it, putting chunks of metal in it, tying it with rope, now and again hitting at the crawling weeping dwarf.
“Stop, stop, stop the wheel!” wailed a voice high in the night where the windy moon was coming out of the vaporous white clouds now. “Stop…” The voice faded.
Now the carnival was ablaze with sudden light. Men sprang out of tents, came running. Hank felt himself jerked into the air with oaths and beatings rained on him. From a distance there was a sound of Peter’s voice and behind Peter, at full tilt, a police officer with pistol drawn.
“Stop, stop the wheel!” In the wind the voice sighed away.
The voice repeated and repeated.
The dark carnival men tried to apply the brake. Nothing happened. The machine hummed and turned the wheel around and around. The mechanism was jammed.
“Stop!” cried the voice one last time.
Silence.
Without a word the Ferris wheel flew in a circle, a high system of electric stars and metal and seats. There was no sound now but the sound of the motor which died and stopped. The Ferris wheel coasted for a minute, all the carnival people looking up at it, the policeman looking up at it, Hank and Peter looking up at it.
The Ferris wheel stopped. A crowd had gathered at the noise. A few fishermen from the wharfhouse, a few switchmen from the rail yards. The Ferris wheel stood whining and stretching in the wind.
“Look,” everybody said.
The policeman turned and the carnival people turned and the fishermen turned and they all looked at the occupant in the black-painted seat at the bottom of the ride. The wind touched and moved the black wooden seat in a gentle rocking rhythm, crooning over the occupant in the dim carnival light.
A skeleton sat there, a paper bag of money in its hands, a brown derby hat on its head.
Many of the writers in this book, like Ray Bradbury, have pulp-magazine backgrounds, and you will find bits and pieces of pulp writing in their stories, woven in just because it was the handiest material, like the rags and string in a bird’s nest. But here is a story which owes nothing to conventional popular fiction and is really unclassifiable. We toss it into the “fantasy” bin because it does not fit anywhere else; its basic assumption is one we must believe to be false. (Solipsism, as Kate Wilhelm has pointed out, is the one philosophical belief to which nobody can ever convert anyone else.) Yet it is as closely reasoned, as faithful to observed reality—and as irrefutable—as the hardest of hard s.f.
This brilliant and compact story has the hallmark of great fiction: you will never be quite the same again after you have read it.
Robert A. Heinlein
THEY
They would not let him alone.
They never would let him alone. He realised that that was part of the plot against him—never to leave him in peace, never to give him a chance to mull over the lies they had told him, time enough to pick out the flaws, and to figure out the truth for himself.
That damned attendant this morning! He had come busting in with his breakfast tray, waking him, and causing him to forget his dream. If only he could remember that dream—
Someone was unlocking the door. He ignored it.
“Howdy, old boy. They tell me you refused your breakfast?”
Dr. Hayward’s professionally kindly mask hung over his bed.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“But we can’t have that. You’ll get weak, and then I won’t be able to get you well completely. Now get up and get your clothes on and I’ll order an eggnog for you. Come on, that’s a good fellow!”
Unwilling, but still less willing at that moment to enter into any conflict of wills, he got out of bed and slipped on his bathrobe. “That’s better,” Hayward approved. “Have a cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
The doctor shook his head in a puzzled fashion. “Darned if I can figure you out. Loss of interest in physical pleasures does not fit your type of case.”
“What is my type of case?” he inquired in flat tones.
“Tut! Tut!” Hayward tried to appear roguish. “If medicos told their professional secrets, they might have to work for a living.”
“What is my type of case?”
“Well—the label doesn’t matter, does it? Suppose you tell me. I really know nothing about your case as yet. Don’t you think it is about time you talked?”
“I’ll play chess with you.”
“All right, all right.” Hayward made a gesture of impatient concession. “We’ve played chess every day for a week. If you will talk, I’ll play chess.”
What could it matter? If he was right, they already understood perfectly that he had discovered their plot; there was nothing to be gained by concealing the obvious. Let them try to argue him out of it. Let the tail go with the hide! To hell with it!
He got out the chessmen and commenced setting them up. “What do you know of my case so far?”
“Very little. Physical examination, negative. Past history, negative. High intelligence, as shown by your record in school and your success in your profession. Occasional fits of moodiness, but nothing exceptional. The only positive information was the incident that caused you to come here for treatment.”
“To be brought here, you mean. Why should it cause comment?”
“Well, good gracious, man-if you barricade yourself in your room and insist that your wife is plotting against you, don’t you expect people to notice?”
“But she was plotting against me—and so are you. White, or black?”
“Black—it’s your turn to attack. Why do you think we are ‘plotting against you’?”
“It’s an involved story, and goes way back into my early childhood. There was an immediate incident, however—” He opened by advancing the white king’s knight to KB3. Hayward’s eyebrows raised.
“You make a piano attack?”
“Why not? You know that it is not safe for me to risk a gambit with you.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders and answered the opening. “Suppose we start with your early childhood. It may shed more light than more recent incidents. Did you feel that you were persecuted as a child?”
“No!” He half rose from his chair. “When I was a child I was sure of myself. I knew then. I tell you; I knew! Life was worth while, and I knew it. I was at peace with myself and my surroundings. Life was good and I was good, and I assumed that the creatures around me were like myself.”
“And weren’t they?”
“Not at all! Particularly the children. I didn’t know what viciousness was until I was turned loose with other ‘children.’ The little devils! And I was expected to be like them and play with them.”
The doctor nodded. “I know. The herd compulsion. Children can be pretty savage at times.”
“You’ve missed the point. This wasn’t any healthy roughness; these creatures were different—not like myself at all. They looked like me, but they were not like me. If I tried to say anything to one of them about anything that mattered to me, all I could get was a stare and a scornful laugh. Then they would find some way to punish me for having said it.”
Hayward nodded. “I see what you mean. How about grownups?”
“That is something different. Adults don’t matter to children at first-or rather, they did not matter to me. They were too big, and they did not bother me, and they were busy with things that did not enter into my considerations. It was only when I noticed that my presence affected them that I began to wonder about them.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, they never did the things when I was around that they did when I was not around.”
Hayward looked at him carefully. “Won’t that statement take quite a lot of justifying? How do you know what they did when you weren’t around?”
He acknowledged the point. “But I used to catch them just stopping. If I came into a room, the conversation would stop suddenly, and then it would pick up about the weather or something equally inane. Then I took to hiding and listening and looking. Adults did not behave the same way in my presence as out of it.”
“Your move, I believe. But see here, old man—that was when you were a child. Every child passes through that phase. Now that you are a man, you must see the adult point of view. Children are strange creatures and have to be protected—at least, we do protect them—from many adult interests. There is a whole code of conventions in the matter that—”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted impatiently, “I know all that. Nevertheless, I noticed enough and remembered enough that was - never clear to me later. And it put me on my guard to notice the next thing.”
“Which was?” He noticed that the doctor’s eyes were averted as he adjusted a castle’s position.
“The things I saw people doing and heard them talking about were never of any importance. They must be doing something else.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“You don’t choose to follow me. I’m telling this to you in exchange for a game of chess.”
“Why do you like to play chess so well?”
“Because it is the only thing in the world where I can see all the factors and understand all the rules. Never mind—I saw all around me this enormous plant, cities, farms, factories, churches, schools, homes, railroads, luggage, roller coasters, trees, saxophones, libraries, people, and animals. People that looked like me and who should have felt very much like me, if what I was told was the truth. But what did they appear to be doing? ‘They went to work to earn the money to buy the food to get the strength to go to work to get the strength to buy the food to earn the money to go to—’ until they fell over dead. Any slight variation in the basic pattern did not matter, for they always fell over dead. And everybody tried to tell me that I should be doing the same thing. I knew better!”
The doctor gave him a look apparently intended to denote helpless surrender and laughed. “I can’t argue with you. Life does look like that, and maybe it is just that futile. But it is the only life we have. Why not make up your mind to enjoy it as much as possible?”
“Oh, no!” He looked both sulky and stubborn. “You can’t peddle nonsense to me by claiming to be fresh out of sense. How do I know? Because all this complex stage setting, all these swarms of actors, could not have been put here just to make idiot noises at each other. Some other explanation but not that one. An insanity as enormous, as complex, as the one around me had to be planned. I’ve found the plan!”
“Which is?”
He noticed that the doctor’s eyes were again averted.
“It is a play intended to divert me, to occupy my mind and confuse me, to keep me so busy with details that I will not have time to think about the meaning. You are all in it, every one of you.” He shook his finger in the doctor’s face. “Most of them may be helpless automatons, but you’re not. You are one of the conspirators. You’ve been sent in as a troubleshooter to try to force me to go back to playing the role assigned to me!”
He saw that the doctor was waiting for him to quiet down.
“Take it easy,” Hayward finally managed to say. “Maybe it is all a conspiracy, but why do you think that you have been singled out for special attention? Maybe it is a joke on all of us. Why couldn’t I be one of the victims as well as yourself?”
“Got you! ” He pointed a long finger at Hayward. “That is the essence of the plot. All of these creatures have been set up to look like me in order to prevent me from realising that I was the center of the arrangements. But I have noticed the key fact, the mathematically inescapable fact, that I am unique. Here am I, sitting on the inside. The world extends outward from me. I am the center—”
“Easy, man, easy! Don’t you realise that the world looks that way to me, too? We are each the center of the universe—”
“Not so! That is what you have tried to make me believe, that I am just one of millions more just like me. Wrong! If they were like me, then I could get into communication with them. I can’t. I have tried and tried and I can’t. I’ve sent out my inner thoughts, seeking some one other being who has them, too. What have I gotten back? Wrong answers, jarring incongruities, meaningless obscenity. I’ve tried, I tell you. God!—how I’ve tried! But there is nothing out there to speak to me—nothing but emptiness and otherness!”
“Wait a minute. Do you mean to say that you think there is nobody home at my end of the line? Don’t you believe that I am alive and conscious?”
He regarded the doctor soberly. “Yes, I think you are probably alive, but you are one of the others—my antagonists. But you have set thousands of others around me whose faces are blank, not lived in, and whose speech is a meaningless reflex of noise.”
“Well, then, if you concede that I am an ego, why do you insist that I am so very different from yourself?”
“Why? Wait!” He pushed back from the chess table and strode over to the wardrobe, from which he took out a violin case.
While he was playing, the lines of suffering smoothed out of his face and his expression took on a relaxed beatitude. For a while he recaptured the emotions, but not the knowledge, which he had possessed in dreams. The melody proceeded easily from proposition to proposition with inescapable, unforced logic. He finished with a triumphant statement of the essential thesis and turned to the doctor. “Well?”
“Hm-m-m.” He seemed to detect an even greater degree of caution in the doctor’s manner. “It’s an odd bit, but remarkable. ’S pity you didn’t take up the violin seriously. You could have made quite a reputation. You could even now. Why don’t you do it? You could afford to, I believe.”
He stood and stared at the doctor for a long moment, then shook his head as if trying to clear it. “It’s no use,” he said slowly, “no use at all. There is no possibility of communication. I am alone.” He replaced the instrument in its case and returned to the chess table. “My move, I believe?”
“Yes. Guard your queen.”
He studied the board. “Not necessary. I no longer need my queen. Check.”
The doctor interposed a pawn to parry the attack.
He nodded. “You use your pawns well, but I have learned to anticipate your play, Check again—and mate, I think.”
The doctor examined the new situation. “No,” he decided, “no—not quite.” He retreated from the square under attack. “Not checkmate—stalemate at the worst. Yes, another stalemate.”
He was pretty upset by the doctor’s visit. He couldn’t be wrong, basically, yet the doctor had certainly pointed out logical holes in his position. From a logical standpoint the whole world must be a fraud perpetrated on everybody. But logic means nothing—logic itself was a fraud, starting with unproved assumptions and capable of proving anything. The world is what it is!—and carried its own evidence of trickery.
But does it? What did he have to go on? Could he lay down a line between known facts and everything else and then make a reasonable interpretation of the world, based on facts alone-an interpretation free from complexities of logic and no hidden assumptions of points not certain? Very well—
First fact, himself. He knew himself directly. He existed.
Second facts, the evidence of his “five senses,” everything that he himself saw and heard and smelled and tasted with his physical senses. Subject to their limitations, he must believe his senses. Without them he was entirely solitary, shut up in a locker of bone, blind, deaf, cut off, the only being in the world.
And that was not the case. He knew that he did not invent the information brought to him by his senses. There had to be something else out there. Some otherness that produced the things his senses recorded. All philosop
hies that claimed that the physical world around him did not exist except in his imagination were sheer nonsense.
But beyond that, what? Were there any third facts on which he could rely? No, not at this point. He could not afford to believe anything that he was told, or that he read, or that was implicitly assumed to be true about the world around him. No, he could not believe any of it, for the sum total of what he had been told and read and been taught in school was contradictory, so senseless, so wildly insane that none of it could be believed unless he personally confirmed it.
Wait a minute—The very telling of these lies, these senseless contradictions, was a fact in itself, known to him directly. To that extent they were data, probably very important data.
The world as it had been shown to him was a piece of unreason, an idiot’s dream. Yet it was on too mammoth a scale to be without some reason. He came wearily back to his original point: Since the world could not be as crazy as it appeared to be, it must necessarily have been arranged to appear crazy in order to deceive him as to the truth.
Why had they done it to him? And what was the truth behind the sham? There must be some clue in the deception itself. What thread ran through it all? Well, in the first place he had been given a superabundance of explanations of the world around him, philosophies, religions, “common-sense” explanations. Most of them were so clumsy, so obviously inadequate, or meaningless, that they could hardly have expected him to take them seriously. They must have intended them simply as misdirection.
But there were certain basic assumptions running through all the hundreds of explanations of the craziness around him. It must be these basic assumptions that he was expected to believe. For example, there was the deep-seated assumption that he was a “human being,” essentially like millions of others around him and billions more in the past and the future.
That was nonsense! He had never once managed to get into real communication with all those things that looked so much like him but were so different. In the agony of his loneliness, he had deceived himself that Alice understood him and was a being like him. He knew now that he had suppressed and refused to examine thousands of little discrepancies because he could not bear the thought of returning to complete loneliness. He had needed to believe that his wife was a living, breathing being of his own kind who understood his inner thoughts. He had refused to consider the possibility that she was simply a mirror, an echo—or something unthinkably worse.
The Dark Side Page 2