In the evening
Are you familiar with the feeling of speeding in an aero up and up the blue spiral, when the window is open and the wild wind whistles past your face? There is no earth, you forget the earth, it is as far from you as Saturn, Jupiter, Venus. This is how I live now. A storm-wind rushes at my face, and I have forgotten the earth, I have forgotten the sweet, rosy O. And yet the earth exists; sooner or later one must glide back to it, and I merely shut my eyes before the day for which her name—O-90— is entered in my Sexual Table.
This evening the distant earth reminded me of its existence.
Obeying the doctor’s instructions (I sincerely, most sincerely want to get well), I wandered for two hours along the glass deserts of our precise, straight avenues. Everyone else was in the auditoriums, as prescribed by the Table of Hours, and only I was alone… It was essentially an unnatural sight: imagine a human finger cut off from the whole, from the hand—a separate human finger, running, stooped and bobbing, up and down, along the glass pavement. I was that finger. And the strangest, the most unnatural thing of all was that the finger had no desire whatever to be on the hand, to be with others. I wanted either to continue thus—by myself, or… But why try to conceal it any longer—to be with her, with I-330, once again pouring all of myself into her through the shoulder, through the intertwined hands…
I returned home when the sun was already setting. The rosy ash of evening glowed on the glass walls, on the golden spire of the Accumulator Tower, in the voices and smiles of the numbers I met. How strange: the dying rays of the sun fall at exactly the same angle as those flaring in the morning, yet everything is altogether different The rosiness is different: now it was quiet, just faintly tinged with bitterness, and in the morning it would again be seething, resonant.
Downstairs in the lobby, U, the controller, took a letter from under a pile of envelopes covered with the rosy ash and handed it to me. I repeat: she is a perfectly decent woman, and I am certain that her feelings toward me are most friendly. And yet, every time I see those sagging, gill-like cheeks, they somehow set my teeth on edge.
Holding out the letter with her gnarled hand, U sighed. But her sigh just barely ruffled the curtain that separated me from the world; my whole being was centered on the envelope that trembled in my hands—undoubtedly containing a letter from I-330.
A second sigh, heavily underscored by two lines, made me break away from the envelope. I looked up: between the gills through the bashful blinds of lowered eyelids—a sympathetic, enveloping, clinging smile. And then, “My poor, poor friend,” with a sigh underscored by three lines and a barely noticeable nod at the letter, the contents of which she was, of course, in the line of duty, familiar with.
“No, really, I…But why?”
“No, no, my dear, I know you better than you know yourself. I have long been watching you, and I can see that you need someone marching hand in hand with you through life who has been a student of life for many years…”
I felt myself all plastered over by her cloying smile—the plaster that would cover the wounds about to be inflicted by the letter trembling in my hands. And finally, through the bashful blinds, almost whispering, “I shall think about it, my dear, I shall think about it. And be assured: if I feel myself strong enough… But no, I must first think about it…”
Great Benefactor! Am I to… does she mean to say that…
There were spots before my eyes, thousands of sinusoids, and the letter jumped in my hand. I walked to the wall, nearer to the light. The sun was dying, and the dismal, dark rose ash fell, thickening steadily, upon me, the floor, my hands, the letter.
I tore the envelope, and quickly—the signature, the wound: it was not I-330, it was… O. And still another wound: a watery blot on the lower right-hand corner of the page—where the drop fell… I detest blots, whatever the reason for them—ink, or… anything else. And I know that formerly I simply would have been annoyed, my eyes would have been offended by that annoying blot. Why, then, was this gray little spot now like a cloud, turning everything darker, more leaden? Or was this again my “soul”?
The letter
You know… or, perhaps, you do not know… I cannot say it properly, but it does not matter: now you know that without you there will be no day, no morning, no spring for me. Because R is to me only… but this is of no interest to you. At any rate, I am very grateful to him. Without him, alone, these past days, I don’t know what I would have… During these days and nights I have lived ten or perhaps twenty years. And it seems to me that my room is not rectangular, but round and endless—around and around, and all is the same, and no doors anywhere.
I cannot live without you—because I love you. Because I see, I understand: today you don’t need anyone, anyone in the world except her, the other one, and… you understand—just because I love you I must…
I need only two or three days to put together the pieces of me into some semblance of the former O-90, and then I will go and tell them myself that I withdraw my registration for you. And you must feel relieved, you must be happy. I shall never again… Farewell.
O.
Never again. Yes, it is better that way, she is right But why, then, why…
Nineteenth Entry
TOPICS:
The Infinitestimal of the Third
Order
A Scowling Glance Over the Parapet
In that strange corridor with the quivering line of dim lamps… or no, no, it was not there, it was later, when we were already in some hidden corner in the yard of the Ancient House… she said, “The day after tomorrow.” That means today, and everything is winged. The day flies. Our Integral is ready for flight: the rocket motor has already been installed and was tested today on the ground. What magnificent, powerful blasts, and to me each of them was a salute in honor of her, the only, the unique one—in honor of today.
During the first firing a dozen or so numbers from the dock neglected to get out of the way-nothing remained of them except some crumbs and soot I record with pride that this did not disturb the rhythm of our work for even a moment No one recoiled; both we and our machines continued our straight-line and circular motions with the same precision as before, as though nothing had happened. Ten numbers are less than a hundred-millionth part of the population of the One State ; practically considered, it is an infinitesimal of the third order. Only the ancients were prone to arithmetically illiterate pity; to us it is ridiculous.
And it’s ridiculous to me that yesterday I paid attention to a miserable little gray spot and even wrote about it in these pages. All of this is but that same “softening” of the surface which should be diamond-hard—as hard as our walls.
Sixteen o’clock. I did not go for my supplementary walk; who knows, she might take it into her head to come just now, when everything rings brightly with the sun…
I am almost alone in the house. Through the sun-drenched walls I can see far, both right and left and down, the empty rooms suspended in the air, repeating themselves as in a mirror. And only on the bluish stairway, faintly sketched in by the sun, a lean, gray shadow is sliding up. I hear the steps now—and I see through the door—I feel the plaster smile glued to me. Then past my door, and down another stairway…
The annunciator clicked. I threw myself to the narrow white slit, and… and saw some unfamiliar male number (beginning with a consonant). The elevator hummed, the door slammed. Before me—a heavy brow, set carelessly, aslant, over the face. And the eyes… a strange impression, as though his words were coming from under the scowling brow, where the eyes were.
“A letter for you from her,” came from beneath the overhanging brow. “She asked that everything be done exactly as it says.”
From under the jutting brow, the overhang, a glance around. There’s no one, no one here; come, let me have it! With another glance around, he slipped me the envelope and left. I was alone.
No, not alone: in the envelope, the pink coupon, and the faintest fragrance—her
s. It is she, she will come, she will come to me. Quickly the letter-to read it with my own eyes, to believe it all the way…
But no, this cannot be true! I read again, skipping lines: “The coupon… and don’t fail to lower the shades, as if I were really there… It is essential that they think I… I’m very, very sorry…”
I tore the letter to bits. In the mirror, for a second, my distorted, broken eyebrows. I took the coupon to tear it as I tore her note…
“She asked that everything be done exactly as it says.”
My hands slackened. The coupon dropped on the table. She is stronger than I. I’m afraid I will do what she asks. However… however, I don’t know: we’ll see, it’s still a long time until evening… The coupon lies on the table.
My tortured, broken eyebrows in the mirror. Why don’t I have a doctor’s note today as well? I would walk and walk endlessly, around the whole Green Wall, then drop into bed—to the very bottom… But I must go to the thirteenth auditorium, I must wind all of myself up tightly to sit two hours—two hours—without stirring… when I need to scream and stamp my feet.
The lecture. How strange that the voice coming from the gleaming apparatus is not metallic, as usual, but somehow soft, furry, mossy. A woman’s voice. I imagine her as she must have been once upon a time: tiny, a little bent hook of an old woman, like the one at the Ancient House.
The Ancient House… And everything bursts out like a fountain from below—and I must use all of my strength to steel myself again, or I will drown the auditorium with screams. Soft, furry words pass through me, and all that remains is the awareness that they have something to do with children, with child-breeding. I am like a photographic plate. I retain every impression with an oddly alien, indifferent, senseless precision: a golden crescent—the light reflected on the loud-speaker; under it, a child, a living illustration, stretches toward the crescent; the edge of its microscopic unif in its mouth; a tightly dosed little fist, the little thumb inside it; a light shadow across the wrist—a plump, tiny fold. Like a photographic plate, I record: the bare foot hangs over the edge now, the rosy fan of toes is stepping on air—a moment, and it will tumble to the floor.
A woman’s scream; a unif, spreading like transparent wings, flew up to the stage, caught the child; lips on the tiny fold across the wrist; she moved the child to the middle of the table, came down from the stage. Mechanically, my mind imprinted the rosy crescent of the lips, its horns down, blue saucer eyes filled to the brim. O. And, as if reading some harmonious formula, I suddenly realized the necessity, the logic of this trivial incident.
She sat down just behind me, on the left. I glanced back; she obediently took her eyes away from the table with the child; her eyes turned to me, entered me, and again: she, I, and the table on the stage—three points, and through these points-lines, projections of some inevitable, still unseen events.
I walked home along the green, twilit street, already gleaming with lights here and there. I heard all of myself ticking like a clock. And the hands of the clock would in a moment step across some figure—I would do something from which there would be no drawing back. She, I-330, needs someone to think she is with me. And I need her, and what do I care for her “need.” I will not be a blind for someone else—I won’t.
Behind me, familiar steps, as though splashing through puddles. I no longer glance back; I know-it is S. He’ll follow me to the door, then he will probably stand below, on the sidewalk, his gimlets drilling up, into my room—until the shades fall, concealing someone’s crime…
He, my Guardian Angel, put a period to my thoughts. I decided—No, I won’t. I decided.
When I came into my room and switched on the light, I did not believe my eyes: near the table stood O. Or, rather, hung, like an empty dress that had been taken off the body. It was as though not a single spring remained under her dress; her arms drooped, springless; her legs, her voice hung limply.
“I… about my letter. You received it? Yes? I must know the answer, I must—right now.”
I shrugged. Gloating, as if she were to blame for everything, I looked at her brimming blue eyes and delayed to answer. Then, with enjoyment, stabbing her with every separate word, I said, “An answer? Well… You are right. Completely. About everything.”
“Then…” (she tried to cover her trembling with a smile, but I saw it). “Very well! I’ll go-I’ll go at once.”
She hung over the table. Lowered eyes, limp arms, legs. The crumpled pink coupon of the other one was still on the table. I quickly opened the manuscript of “We” and hid the coupon—more, perhaps, from myself than from O.
“You see, I’m still writing. Already 170 pages… It’s turning into something so unexpected…”
A voice, a shadow of a voice: “Do you remember… on page seven… I let a drop fall, and you…”
Blue saucers-silent, hurried drops over the brim, down the cheeks, and words, hurried, over the brim. “I can’t, I will go in a moment… I’ll never again… let it be as you say. But I want, I must have your child-give me a child and I will go, I’ll go!”
I saw all of her trembling under her unif, and I felt: in a moment, I too… I put my hands behind my back and smiled.
“You seem to be anxious for the Benefactor’s Machine?”
And her words, like a stream over the dam: “It doesn’t matter! But I will feel, I’ll feel it within me. And then, if only for a few days… To see, to see just once the little crease, here—like that one, on the table. Only one day!”
Three points: she, I, and the tiny fist there, on the table, with the plump fold…
Once, I remember, when I was a child, we were taken to the Accumulator Tower. On the very top landing, I bent over the glass parapet. Below, dots of people, and my heart thumped sweetly: What if? At that time I had merely seized the rail more firmly; now, I jumped.
“So you want it? Knowing that…”
Eyes dosed, as if facing the sun. A wet, radiant smile. “Yes, yes! I do!”
I snatched the pink coupon from under the manuscript—the other’s coupon—and ran downstairs, to the controller on duty. O caught my hand, cried out something, but I understood her words only when I returned.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands locked tightly between her knees. “That was… her coupon?”
“What does it matter? Well, yes, hers.”
Something cracked. Or, perhaps, O merely stirred. She sat, hands locked in her knees, silently.
“Well? Hurry…” I roughly seized her hand, and red spots (tomorrow they’ll be blue) appeared on her wrist, by the plump childlike fold.
That was the last. Then—a click of the switch, all thought extinguished, darkness, sparks—I flew over the parapet, down…
Twentieth Entry
TOPICS :
Discharge
The Material of Ideas
Zero Crag
Discharge—this is the most fitting definition. Now I see that it was precisely like an electrical discharge. The pulse of my recent days had grown ever drier, ever faster, ever more tense; the poles came ever closer—a dry crackling—another millimeter: explosion, then—silence.
Everything in me is very quiet and empty now, as in a house when everyone is gone and you are lying alone, sick, and hearing with utmost clarity the sharp, metallic ticking of your thoughts.
Perhaps this “discharge” has cured me finally of my tormenting “soul,” and I’ve become again like all of us. At least, I can now visualize without any pain O on the steps of the Cube; I can see her in the Gas Bell. And if she names me there, in the Operational Section, it does not matter: in my last moment I shall piously and gratefully kiss the punishing hand of the Benefactor. Suffering punishment is my right in relation to the One State, and I will not yield this right. We, the numbers of our State, should not, must not give up this right—the only, and therefore the most precious, right that we possess.
My thoughts tick quietly, with metallic clarity. An unseen aero carries
me off into the blue heights of my beloved abstractions. And there, in the purest, most rarefied air, I see my idea of “right” burst with the snap of a pneumatic tire. And I see clearly that it is merely a throwback to one of the absurd prejudices of the ancients—their notion of “rights.”
There are clay ideas, and there are ideas forever carved of gold or of our precious glass. And, in order to determine the material of which an idea is made, it is enough to pour upon it a single drop of strong acid. One of these acids was known to the ancients too: reductio ad finem. I believe this is what they called it. But they were afraid of this poison, they preferred to see even a day heaven, even a toy heaven, rather than blue nothing. But we, thanks to the Benefactor, are adults, we need no toys.
Well, then, suppose a drop of acid is applied to the idea of “rights.” Even among the ancients, the most mature among them knew that the source of right is might, that right is a function of power. And so, we have the scales: on one side, a grain, on the other a ton; on one side “I,” on the other “We,” the One State. Is it not clear, then, that to assume that the “I” can have some “rights” in relation to the State is exactly like assuming that a gram can balance the scale against the ton? Hence, the division: rights to the ton, duties to the gram. And the natural path from nonentity to greatness is to forget that you are a gram and feel yourself instead a millionth of a ton.
You, pink-cheeked, full-bodied Venusians, and you, Uranians, sooty as blacksmiths, I hear your murmur of objections in my blue silence. But you must learn to understand: everything great is simple; only the four rules of arithmetic are eternal and immutable. And only an ethic built on the four rules can be great, immutable, and eternal. This is the ultimate wisdom, the summit of the pyramid, which people, flushed with perspiration, kicking and gasping, have been climbing for centuries. And from this summit, all that is below, in the depths, where the residual something surviving in us from our savage ancestors still stirs like a heap of miserable worms, is alike. From this summit all these are alike: the unlawful mother—O; the murderer; the madman who dared to fling his verses into the face of the One State. And the judgment meted out to them is alike: untimely death. This is that divine justice the stone-house people had dreamed of in the rosy, naive light of the dawn of history. Their “God” punished blasphemy against the Holy Church as sternly as murder.
We Page 9