Limbo

by Bernard Wolfe

  “I’m afraid it won’t do you any good,” Martine said. “I’d be very happy to tell you all about Theo but I don’t know a thing about him. Not a thing. I’ve never even met the man.”

  “I see.” Vishinu looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “You are not a gossip—most admirable, but a little unfortunate under the circumstances. Dai, my colleague here, is a spetz in making gossips out of strong silent men. After Dai gives you a demonstration you will gossip, I assure you, like old ladies over the back fence. Oh, yes.”

  The Eurasian took a short, thick rubber truncheon from his hip pocket and held it at his side.

  “You can’t get information out of me that I don’t have.” Martine sat up, the sheet still draped over him. “Look, would you have any objection if I put my clothes on? It’s getting chilly in here.”

  “Please. You will make a much better-looking cripple in your nice tweeds than in your birthday suit.”

  Vishinu spoke a few words in a foreign tongue to Neen. She immediately went to the chair on which Martine’s clothes were lying, felt expertly in all the pockets, then brought them over to the bed. Martine began awkwardly to dress. At the same time Neen took a robe from the closet and slipped it on.

  “What is your decision?” Vishinu said finally. “Shall we begin with the, ah, ceremony?”

  “You put me in a difficult position,” Martine said. “I don’t have anything to tell you—that’s the truth, but you won’t believe it. On the other hand, I’m obliged to face another fact: no matter what you believe, you can’t let me go.”

  “How do you deduce this remarkable fact?”

  Martine sank into an easy chair. “It’s simple enough. Spying is forbidden everywhere in Immob, I understand. Don’t tell me everybody does it, that’s another matter—the point is that it’s a terrible crime for anybody to get caught at. And you have now made it clear to me that you, chairman of the East Union delegation to the Olympic Committee, are the head of a very large spy ring. It makes no difference if Theo is too, I can’t prove that. But I can prove it about you, at least I can call attention to it. So it’s obvious: you can’t leave me any way but dead. Therefore—”

  “I do like your mind,” Vishinu said. “Very much. Continue.”

  “So even if I did have something to tell you, which I don’t, why should I? I’m a dead duck either way you look at it.”

  “Not necessarily. For one thing, you would avoid much pain before the end. A good deal, take my word. But there does not have to be an end, there is another way. Tell us everything you know—not as a double-crossing spy but in order to save the cause of Immob and civilization.”

  “Don’t tempt me. I’m sucker for saving civilizations—it’s the Mormon in me.”

  Vishinu leaned forward and began to speak seriously, ignoring the interruption. “Do this. Then come over to our side as many courageous Strippers have done, many Negroes and others too. You will be safe. We will slip you out of the country and take you to the Union to wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “Not for long. Five, six months now, not more, the showdown will come soon. Then the treacherous bureaucrats who have grabbed power in the Strip will be taught their lesson. There will be a place then for you, you and all the other true Immobs of the Strip. You will return then in glory. You will be a hero to your people, another Martine. It will be worth it.”

  “What, exactly, is happening in five or six months?” Martine hoped they would not notice that his voice had become tight and strained.

  Vishinu pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket, lit it and puffed for a moment, then took it between thumb and forefinger and waved it at Martine like a baton. “Yes,” he said. “When you leave this room you will be either a corpse or a recruit to our side. Yes, I can tell you something. The Theos and the Helders are going to be taught a lesson.”

  “They will learn not to be greedy for everything,” the Eurasian said.

  “And to mistreat Negroes,” Neen said.

  “And to bring back all the old crap, the old imperialist crap,” Vishinu said. “To act as though in the West is everything good and the East is only for savages and barbarians. To think that because they are so good with machines and laboratories and efficiency systems everybody else is so much garbage. To spread around the idea that technics and material values is civilization and a man with two helicopters in his garage is better than a man with a thousand dreams in his head. To fool themselves that those who jump a few feet higher in the Olympics should be the lords of the world and get all the columbium. Yes, my friend, they will be taught. We have been patient, but when it comes to stealing all the supplies of columbium—well, we will not sit by and let it happen. We are going to remove the imperialists in your country and put back Immob, true Immob. And those Strippers who help in the great work will have their reward for it.”

  “Another war to preserve peace?” Martine said. “This is where I came in. I mean, this is where I went out.”

  “The Strip has declared this war behind the scenes,” Vishinu said forcefully. “It is here whether we want it or not. Now it is only a strategy matter. Either we sit back and let your Theos and Helders stamp us into the ground, or we attack out of self-defense, before they do. It is the only choice open to us.”

  “Couldn’t you just lie down and passive-resist?” Martine said. “Grunt a few Oms?”

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” Vishinu said. He was getting impatient. “Such gabble is for schoolkids and Anti-Pros. We have these crackpots in our country too, but we keep them where they’re harmless.”

  “Oh? And if they’re not harmless?”

  “Simple: then we arrest them and bring them to trial for their crimes. You have not heard of the East Union trials? These Antis and their fellow conspirators confess to everything, sabotage, spying, counter-Martinism, imperialist plotting, terrorism, degenerate bourgeois democracy, deviationism, Talmudism, homeless cosmopolitanism, troglodytism, Aristotelianism, and so on. Everything.”

  “Aren’t those pretty big crimes for basket cases?”

  “Sabotage and terrorism,” Vishinu said, “can be moral as well as physical. There is such a thing as passive sabotage and terrorism. This is the worst crime of all.”

  “Say,” Martine said, turning to Neen, “this is a side of Union democracy you forgot to tell me about. It looks like passivity can be pretty dangerous after all.”

  “Do not deceive yourself,” Vishinu said. “Passive resistance is a nice idea—if you want to feel the steamroller on your belly.”

  “I most definitely don’t,” Martine said. “Not even yours.” His fingers played aimlessly with the row of pencils in his breast pocket, then he slid one of them out and began to chew reflectively on the eraser end. Vishinu was watching him closely, the Eurasian tightened his grip on the truncheon. “And I see only one way to dodge your particularly persuasive kind of steamroller.”

  “Namely?” Vishinu said.

  “By making myself particularly passive,” Martine said.

  He bit off the eraser with his teeth, spat it out, before Vishinu could reach him he had upended the pencil and swallowed its contents.

  He stared into the flaring mouth of the automatic, inches away from his head.

  “What was that?” Vishinu said furiously.

  “Don’t worry. Just seven cc’s of trance. Anti-steamroller juice.”

  “I advise you, do not play games with me. What was it?”

  “Rotabunga, plus a few other things,” Martine said. “It’s very popular among the Ubus, a tribe I lived with in Africa. Would you like to know the ingredients? First there’s C17H22Cl—”

  “Never mind,” Vishinu said harshly. “What does this stuff do?”

  “There are various mixtures,” Martine said. “This particular mixture, Rota Three, is a pretty nifty pacifist snake oil. In exactly three minutes I’ll be totally anesthetized. In another eight or nine minutes I’ll be almost totally paralyzed, except for the blinking reflex, ce
rtain restricted movements of the vocal cords, and a few odds and ends.”

  “You think this solves something for you, you fool?”

  “For at least twelve hours it does. You seem to be fond of demonstrations—shall I give you a demonstration? The anesthesia is beginning to set in. Watch.”

  Martine unfastened his tie clasp, a strip of solid gold. He held it out, demonstrating its sharp pin. “Nice, isn’t it? Used to belong to the British consul at Johannesburg.” He lit a match and dipped the pin in the flame. “Sorry to waste your time,” he said apologetically. “Sterilization, necessary surgical precaution. No sense risking infection.” He took the pin firmly between his fingers and jabbed it into the palm of his other hand. Then he extended the hand, palm down: the point of the pin was protruding from the other side. “See?” he said. “I’m now the insensitive type. It’s quite a good trick—almost as good, I’d say, as the Indian fakir’s sleeping on spikes.”

  Now he pulled the pin free, stuck his tongue out as far as it would go, and drove the sliver of metal all the way through its fleshy tip. “How’s ’at? ’Akes talking a ’iddle bi’ di’icult bu’ it’th quite d’amatic, idd’n it?” With a quick gesture he removed the pin from his tongue. “Gentlemen, for the next twelve hours you can make Salisbury steak out of me with your revolver butts and blackjacks, kill me if you choose—but you can’t hurt me. Flail away, father confessors. Incidentally, I’d like to talk to you later, when you’ve got a minute, about getting the agency to handle this stuff in the East Union. Bet I could make a fortune selling it to your basket cases—the ones you’ve decided to extract a few confessions from. Sure cure for confessions.”

  Vishinu yanked the pin away and plunged it into Martine’s upper arm, over and over. Martine sat without moving.

  “You’ll never get me to say Uncle Vanya,” he said. “I’m stubborn—it’s the Mormon in me.”

  “He’s right,” Neen said, puzzled. “He doesn’t feel a thing.”

  “Important to send in a report on this right away,” Vishinu said. “No doubt all their operatives carry this new stuff with them. We must take countermeasures.”

  “Seven cc’s of alienation,” Martine said. “You can’t reach me, the real me. Rotabunga should be the national beverage on Independence Day. Do you mind if I lie down? Musculature’s going flabby now, that’s the next step.”

  He stood up, made his way waveringly across the room and flopped down on the bed with a deep sigh. “Religion the opium of the people?” he said. “Wrong, rotabunga opium of the people. Sleep the opium of the people. Opium opium of people. Lobotomy and amputeeism opium people but rotabunga better, reversible. Those who take opium of people can be unopiumed but people can’t be unlobotomized or unamputated. Am I boring you? Excuse me, hard to talk, lips getting heavy. . . .”

  “It must go to his head,” Dai said. “He talks crazy.”

  “He thinks he’s being funny,” Vishinu said. “He has a very big sense of humor.”

  Neen came over to the bed and stood looking down at Martine.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Martine said thickly. “I wish to thank you for a wonderful evening. You must come up and see my mandolins sometime. Miss Oceanic. Miss Oceanic of 1990. Sorry can’t smile at you, embouchure’s frozen stiff as a board as a pelvis. Just consider please that I am mentally smiling at you. Broad grin. Miss Position-Is-Everything-In-Life. Only mistake you make you don’t give guy a slug of rotabunga before you start steamrolling him. Great little pacifier, passive-fier.”

  “Twelve hours,” Neen said. “What are you going to do with him?”

  Vishinu looked thoughtful. “He may be lying about these twelve hours,” he said, “but we must wait. Take this.” He handed Neen the revolver. “Watch him—and be careful, you don’t know when he’ll get over it. Dai and I will see the agent from L.A. and get his report. Also, we will search this pig’s room. We will look in from time to time.” He leaned over and slapped Martine’s face hard. Martine’s eyes blinked once, that was all. “We will slap him and stick some pins into him from time to time,” Vishinu said. “The moment he feels even a little tickle, life will begin to get very, very sad for him. You hear me, Dr. Lazarus? You are going to be very, very sad.”

  Vishinu and Dai went toward the door.

  “’Bye,” Martine said to the ceiling. “Don’t take any wooden expressions. Unioneers have such wooden expressions and not only expressions. Suspicious of man with frozen embouchure. Tonus written all over map pretending it’s territory. Oriental inscrutability balls. Oriental tonus from jowl to jowl, it’s no Occident. . . .”

  The door slammed.

  “You shut up,” Neen said. She pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down, the revolver held warily in her lap.

  It was his first experience with Rota Three, any of the rota mixtures. For all the thousands of times he had observed its effects on others, both in preparation for surgery and as a general sedative, he had never tried it on himself, preferred being limber to limp. No feelings now, soaring, gliding, body an inert lump he had sloughed off in Manichean despondency, slough of despond, body lying back there on earth somewhere and he did not feel the movement, only perceived it. Knew it. World as Idea, Omful of Idea. Pure Reason. Sheer delight. Sheer Om.

  “Om,” he said experimentally. Hearing dim now, words far away like soft bubbles under water. “Ooooommmmmmmm.” Very far away but he could hear it as it echoed ripplingly through space, gondoliered through his semicircular canals, bouncing off Jupiter, ricocheting off Saturn.

  He flowed out unfeeling with the mystic word, he was the Word, in the beginning was the Word as big as the world and he was straddling it, riding along past the sluggish galaxies at 186,000 miles per sec and everywhere at once and nowhere, just the idea of everywhere, because at 186,000 miles per sec there is no mass only energy, all energy, dazzling blue orgonotic energy of oceanic light and so at the speed of light you are weightlessly everywhere. Discovery. Revelation. Revealed at last the way to plow through the alienation, all you do is hit the cosmic road at 186,000 miles per sec and shed vile mass and become a light beam and finally Thou art That, yippee. Traveling light, Einsteinian system for beating the rap of skin. With one fell swig he had rid himself of swarming protoplasm, don’t you think it’s swarm in here, thrown off limbs, abdomen, viscera, instincts, glands, solar plexus, thalamus, parasympathetic nervous system, all the agents of the steamroller inside the skin, all the troublemakers and tonus-makers and tempest-makers and toupee-makers—nowhere and everywhere and an all-at-onceness, cuddled up with the Infinite, playing footsie with the Ineffable Omnipresent Altogether, bursting with it in gleed and gleek and gleet and, oh, yes, glee. . . .

  “Hey,” he said. Thought he said; hearing fading fast now, could hardly make out sound of voice drowned in swish of stardust rumble of meteors. “Don’t look now but somebody stole my skin.”

  “I can’t stand much more of this,” Neen said. Seemed to be saying. Sight fading too: blurred words came from pinkish blur presumably Neen poised on russet blur presumably chair. “Are you going to keep this up for twelve hours? I’ll go crazy.”

  Would be good to go limp ride with it just riding but too risky. Would lose consciousness if stopped talking stopped thinking. Had to fight keep awake keep in touch. Rota would wear off in two three hours. Had to be awake in control of it when it happened. Had to follow process as cortex spinal cord came back to life. Otherwise might give it away with telltale squirming stretching. Goner that way for sure. Could not let them know when stuff was wearing off play dead only chance. . . .

  “Sorry to make such nuisance myself,” he said. Talking almost unbearably difficult now, face mask of pulpy papiermâché, tongue thick slice of aspic, lips flaps of cotton wadding. “Just got Word Word is Om. Listen.” Couldn’t move eyes now but staring up at India-rubber ceiling sensing vague smudge that must be her over near Saturn; voice seemed to be coming from echo chamber under floor. “Mistake for woman make herself man all Co
mmissar no Yogi all alp no sea. False phallus. Phallusy.”

  “You’ve got to stop it,” Neen said. “Stop talking crazy. I’ve had as much as I can take.”

  Wavery blur moved closer now, she must have stood up. Seemed now through gathering fog in room she had bent over was fumbling with him somehow, couldn’t feel it but some swimming shape that could be hand reaching out to where his chest had been. Yes, yes, saw it now as through milk, fingers fumbling at his pocket, pulling false pencils out, could just barely see bright reds greens blues of pencils rising into pink haze that was her face shimmied there for moment came down again. Smelling, sure, smelling what was in pencils.

  “Listen,” said, hoped was saying. “Immob fine but big mistake. Apply it to women not men automatically end war between nations. War between nations only extension war between sexes. Language of love language of military. Sex is war games. To demilitarize sex men must stop feeling competition from women castration penis envy all that world needs less momism more Omism. Trouble is—”

  “If you don’t stop, I swear, if you don’t stop I’m going to pour some more of this stuff down your throat. I don’t care if it kills you. You’ve got to stop it.”

  “Trouble’s simple,” forced laggard lips to say. “Man resents once being dependent on woman spends whole life denying it proving lead in pencil instead rotabunga women helpless dependent on him. Bad for ego saw off legs make him dependent on women again better saw off women’s legs make them helpless babies he’s got to take care of show he’s not big baby. Trouble with Immob—”