Limbo

by Bernard Wolfe

  Most of the amps were dead: one had been run through the gut by a girder, another’s skull was squashed flat by the broad side of a beam, a third had had his neck neatly slit from ear to ear, apparently by flying glass—blood everywhere, trickling, forming in pools, dripping down into the street like plastic, running fingers.

  Three or four were still alive. A head squirmed: eyes bulged at Martine, “Aaaaiiiiiiii” bansheed the ambulatory lips. Sobbing laughter from another head three baskets away: “Heeheeheehee.”

  He went on to the end, as he had to. Past the miniatured groaner, the stunted titterer, the shrunken gurgler, stepping over the puddles of blood—to the yellow basket in the corner, as he had to. Basket neatly trapped in a mesh of girders, caged with ribbons of steel, blood oozing from it over the window’s edge and down to the sidewalk.

  Stood there looking down at the blood at his feet, his blood. Raised his eyes and looked at the face in the basket, his face. Lids of the face that was his face closed and fluttering, peevish mouth erupting soft noncommittal oh’s, blood-flecked foam churning at the corners of the lips—his lips.

  Baby-blue blanket still draped over the body that was his body yet less than his body—gashed in the middle now, blood surging through the rip, great blot of blood at the middle. Ripped by glass, probably: glass all about.

  Itching in his throat, coughed.

  Twitching eyelids snapped open. Blood-caked lips clamped on an “oh.”

  Reached between two beams, caressed the clammy forehead. Found the handkerchief in his pocket, brought it out and wiped the lips clean, mopped the forehead.

  Question in the wide-open eyes that were his eyes: enormous unspeakable question, the ultimate interrogation which takes place in an echo chamber.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, son. Something went wrong. We’ll have to find out.”

  “Something went wrong we. Something. We.”

  “No, no, son, you mustn’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault—you did everything you could. Maybe people weren’t ready yet.”

  Talking softly, all the while reaching for the lower edge of the blanket, lifting it gently.

  “You have nothing to reproach yourself for. You went all the way. Others fell behind, not you.”

  Lifting gently, the wound coming into view. The whole belly ripped open, hole big enough for two fists, lacerated guts hanging out.

  Patting the head that was his head, soothing the feverish brow that was his brow, crooning yeses for noes, as he had to.

  Eyes caught by something else: strange emptiness between the legs, what was left of the legs, the stumps. Where the genitals should be, something missing. Phallus lying unpropped. No testicles. Of course. Castrated. Programmatically.

  Shock: of recognition; dream backfiring. Icy prickling at the nape of the neck, along the spine. Blanket back in place, mouth that was his mouth absent-mindedly going “Oh, oh, oh”.

  “You did everything you could.”

  “Maybe we were wrong!” Head raised from pillow now, jerking from side to side, eyes wild and rolling. “Everybody! They and we too and on all the sides! War—there was an explosion, outside people standing listening I was telling them the right and then explosion they disappeared sank down into the ground I was talking telling them they weren’t there. . . . If! The slightest in the world! Understand! Then if we were wrong the arms the legs everything. . . . Do you hear me! Stay there, don’t sink! Then in that case. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. But they never bring the milk.”

  Martine reached all the way between the beams, slid his arm under the boy’s shoulder, cradling him, trying not to feel the stumps of the vanished arms that had been his arms.

  “I want my arms I want my legs. You do that. And the milk. Like a piece of chocolate cake too, please. Hungry, feel empty.”

  “Listen to me, son! You were right! Never doubt it for a minute. The world will thank you for all this one day—you’ll see, it will work yet. Don’t lose your faith! You did not make your sacrifice for nothing—you are the true son of Martine, your father would be proud of you, you are flesh of his flesh. . . .”

  Trying to keep the nausea from his voice. Rocking back and forth gently, rocking his son.

  Body that was his body tense and trembling in his arm, relaxing slowly as he spoke the noes as yeses. Eyes that were his eyes looking up at him with diminishing fright, trust growing in them.

  “All right then? You say of course? No war?”

  “There will be peace. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. Don’t be afraid, son.”

  Breathing regular now, languid. Martine put his free hand into his jacket pocket, as he had to, took out the automatic. He reached in until the mouth of the gun was an inch away from the boy’s right temple, rocking softly, crooning, “Sleep, son, sleep.” Aimed directly at young Tom’s prefrontal lobes, as he had to, at the prefrontal lobes that were his prefrontal lobes, as he had to, pulled the trigger, as he had to.

  Spasm: body arched, he cradled it around the shoulders, poor maimed truncated shoulders, gripped it tight. “Son, son,” he said. Then the body shivered cruelly, fell limp. Mouth closed in a pout. But the eyes never opened.

  Tonus gone.

  First successful lobotomy he had ever performed. As he had to. Last he would ever perform. As he had to.

  Close notebook.

  Way a notebook ends: with whimper for milk and chocolate cake. And the chamber of the cave echoing unspeakably.

  “Aaaaiiiiiiiii,” from down the window.

  “Sleep, son,” he said.

  Question: Would he have pulled the trigger if Tom Martine, sin of his sin, had not been mortally wounded? Unspeakable question, answer in the echo cave.

  He rose to his feet, made his way back across the pavement, stepping over the pools of blood. At the curb, what was left of the curb, he sat down, hands spotted with blood of his blood. Hid face in his hands, and sobbed.

  For a long time he sat there. When he rose he dried his eyes on his sleeve and began to grope his way through the smoking city again, heading north, northwest.

  “Ee-ee-ee-ee-ee,” behind him, blubbering, sniggering.

  chapter twenty-three

  IT TOOK almost an hour of maneuvering through the streets, detouring tediously around the trouble spots, before he reached the outskirts. His sense of direction hadn’t failed him: signs began to appear, indicating the route to DROP NUMBER SEVEN. Ten minutes more and he sighted the low concrete building which housed the elevator entrances—and from this orientation point it was easy to find the highway which ran northwest.

  He began to walk along the highway, stirring up puffs of chalky dust along the soft sandy shoulder. His mind was empty; the automatic in his pocket bumped against his side as he went, he did not notice it. He was numbed, couldn’t think. First to the motel, to sleep.

  A vehicle came up from behind him and wheezed to a halt—battered hulk of a touring car, in its open window the friendly tanned face of a man perhaps forty, rawboned, eyes green and direct. His arms, lean and muscular, extending from the rolled sleeves of a blue denim shirt, were his own; Martine could see that he was wearing long trousers, faded dungarees, instead of the shorts worn by amps.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Sviridoff’s—motel about twenty miles down the—”

  “Hop in, if you want a lift. I’m going right past there.”

  The man’s voice was deep and pleasant, neither unctuous nor gruff, just straightforward—the twang Martine recognized as Western, his father had had it too.

  Martine climbed in, the car started off. They drove for a minute or two in silence.

  “Bad back there,” the driver said.

  “Yes.” A twitch of suspicion: “What made you pick me up?”

  “Oh. . . .” The driver kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t know—wanted company, I guess. Saw some bad things back there.”

  “I didn’t ask you for a ride.”

  “Don’t get me wrong.” T
he man rubbed one palm against the side of his face. “I’m not posing as the good-Samaritan type. Good Samaritans give me the bellyache. I was just lonely, I reckon.”

  That was all he chose to say: he fished a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, offered one to Martine, lit one for himself. Then he gave Martine a quizzical sidelong glance, rubbed his tongue slowly over his lips, and added,

  “Well, I’ll give it to you straight. You interested me. I notice it when a man’s got his own arms and legs.”

  “You don’t disapprove of backward elements like me? Of course, you look pretty backward yourself.”

  The man didn’t reply: he simply reached out and switched on the radio. A tense announcer’s voice faded in: “. . . . bulletin received at our news desk just five minutes ago. Omaha, Des Moines, Theo City and Helderfort have been hit badly too, at key surface installations as well as underground, but the news is not all bad. Hundreds of fifth columnists have already been rounded up around the Strip and the number is growing by the minute. More reassuring yet, it seems that in many places the boys of the Olympic training clubs have spontaneously organized and equipped themselves with special-function arms and are now marching out to meet the invading Union forces—skirmishes have already been reported in several areas, the Union casualties are reported to be heavy. President Helder, ladies and gentlemen, is safe at the capitol, he has just issued an urgent appeal to all true Immobs in the Union, calling on them to throw off their imperialist oppressors and—”

  The man snapped the radio off. “Backward?” he drawled. “Hard to tell just what’s backward and what’s forward any more.”

  “Yes. . . . Where you headed for?”

  “Bar Limbo.”

  “What?” Martine jerked, grunted, began to shake his hand violently. He’d been reaching for the cigarette between his lips when the man answered, his fingers had suddenly clamped together directly over the lighted tip. He sucked at the burned knuckles.

  “Oh—that’s my ranch, it’s up in the foothills about three hundred miles north of here. . . . That name, it’s just a joke.”

  “What the hell kind of a joke is that?” Martine’s voice was rough.

  “Well, you know, there are those references to Limbo in Martine’s notebook. That’s how we hit on the name—we just like the way it sounds.”

  “Listen!” Martine sat up straight and turned toward the driver. “What are you trying to say, man? Give it to me straight, I’ve got to know! Is it—do you mean you’ve held out, never became an amp, because you’re sick of the whole thing—all this shit—you’ve kept your arms and legs because—”

  The man held up an admonishing hand. “Don’t get the wrong idea about me,” he said. “I’m not as well-preserved as I look.”

  He reached down with his free hand and tugged at one trouser leg, then the other: his legs were exposed to the knees. Martine blinked: both legs were plastic.

  “Oh. . . . But I don’t get it, you hide them. . . .”

  “Sure I hide them!” the man said violently. “I’m no god-damned vol-amp! I didn’t turn in my legs, I lost them—same way Theo lost his—in the Third, during the hell-bombing of Moscow. Is that something to be proud of, that a burst of ack-ack plowed off your legs eighty thousand feet over Moscow? So proud that you go and do more of the same to yourself?” He pushed his trouser legs down again. “They gave me a medal for it,” he went on more calmly. “I don’t display that either.”

  “I don’t understand your bitterness.” Martine found it had to keep the excitement out of his voice.

  “That’s what it’s come to,” the man said, his lips curled. “A man who’s bitter about being cut down to something less than a man is considered—peculiar. Twisted. Off the beam, somehow. . . . Theo says his glorification of amputeeism, his sawing off his arms to complete the job—in a revelation he saw that this was what Martine called upon him to do in the Notebook. You know what I answer to that? Theo can’t read! There’re lots of things in that book I don’t understand—”

  “Me too,” Martine said. His throat muscles were so tight he could hardly get the words out, they came in a whisper.

  “—but I understand this much. Whatever confusion there was in this guy Martine’s mind—even if he finally went up and got himself killed for no earthly reason—and to the extent that it makes any goddamned difference at all what he thought and did—in the end he was saying that anybody who’s half a man has got to feel bitter about being cut down to less than human size. Got to stand up, even on his miserable little stumps or whatever’s left of his standing-up apparatus, and yell no to all steamrollers. . . . Remember that last speech in the Notebook, in the dialogue part, where Martine has Theo, Babyface he calls him, speak his piece for a couple of pages? That comes after all the fine talk about immobilization and passivity and all that muck, all the stuff Helder and Theo took seriously. And after all of that, what does Martine have Theo say? Only the fuck you. Only: you’ve got your legs and I haven’t got mine—you talk about fine humanitarian programs, I lie here and massage my stumps. That’s the last thing in the Notebook. What’s it mean, except that immobilization and passivity are one big dirty joke, not the way out of war but the logical end-result of war, the thing behind war, the thing war disguises. . . .”

  Martine turned his head away; his lips were trembling, he did not want the man to see how moved he was. “You—figured all that out for youreelf?”

  “Doesn’t take much figuring. Just some plain simple feeling. . . . Look at it this way. In past centuries people had some pretty gaudy ideas about human integrity: it was knightly chivalry in the Middle Ages, being well-rounded and versatile in the Renaissance, the full use of your rational powers in the Enlightenment, the right to be ‘natural’ and all that for Rousseau, the right to ‘pursue happiness’ for Tom Paine, the freedom to buy and sell in the nineteenth century. Lots of things. But in the twentieth century all the fancy definitions of integrity are thrown away. It becomes a simple matter of life and death—integrity is staying alive, just simply staying alive, and the lack of integrity is looking for death. By the end of the century integrity is simply a matter of keeping—not body and soul together—just body together. Of keeping yourself in one piece. That’s progress, I guess—from galloping out on a white charger to joust against infidels and dragons for some lady fair, to just simply trying to keep your arms and legs, trying to establish that it’s bad to surrender them willingly, the worst thing. Our century’s made everything very simple. . . .”

  “Yes,” Martine echoed, “that’s the sin. To allow that a man can live as sheer basket case, with no face-saving amble. . . .”

  The driver thumped on one plastic thigh with his knuckles. “They want me to believe I’m better off!” he said. “In place of my frail, stumbling old flesh-and-blood legs I’ve got infinitely superior ones—superstrong, supersensitive, superdexterous, and all. No, I’m not better off. Because, no matter how cleverly these plastic legs are made, they’re still plastic. They’re dead. Part of me is dead. It’s sinful to be dead. A man’s not a man unless he’s got all his parts and is alive in all of them, uses them. . . . I miss my own legs. I know these artificial ones will do the job better—they’ll never buckle, ache, get shinned, fracture, develop charley horses or sunburn or arteriosclerosis or frostbite, never sweat in the summer and knock at the knees in the winter, never quake. And if they do go wrong I can always get replacements. But a man should be able to stand on his own two legs, his own. With all their frailties. I want legs that are less perfect but more alive. Even if they stumble a little, and quake. A man should stumble and quake a little. Only robots never stumble and quake. . . . You know why people laugh so hard when they see an amp trip or take a dive? Because the horror in a human being is perfection, infallibility—that’s inhuman, and the idea that you can get it, short of death—that’s a laugh. The stumble, the fall, it reminds people of the frail humanity behind all the mechanical perfection, the life— it’s a hell of a relie
f to see it pop up. If men were meant to be perfect, they’d be hatched somewhere up in those fleecy clouds, where the angels hang out, not down here on earth and earthbound, a damned sight closer to hell, to limbo anyhow, than to heaven. Not that it’s not human to want to be perfect—but the deeper part of humanity is wanting it and never getting it, knowing damned well it’s a mirage. . . . I’m scared of the perfectionist who takes himself seriously. What happened just now back there in Los Alamos—that was the work of perfectionists, every war is. Looks like the only really perfect thing they’ll be able to boast about is a perfect war. . . .”

  Martine rubbed his hands over his knees: his palms were soaking wet. “There’s a lot I don’t know,” he finally managed to say. “I’m a parasitologist—I’ve been away for a long time, doing research. . . . Let me ask you: are there many people who feel the way you do?”

  “Quite a few,” the man answered. “A pretty fair number. You don’t see them around much.”

  “I know, you’re the first one I’ve met. . . . Why should that be?”

  Now it was the driver’s turn to study Martine. He looked directly at his passenger, green eyes suddenly narrow and cautious, appraising. For a long moment Martine stared back, waiting for him to break the silence.

  The man shifted his eyes back to the road. He seemed lost in thought. Then he took a deep breath, pressed his lips together and bit them—it was clear that he was trying to make some difficult decision.

  Finally he spoke: “I’m probably shooting my mouth off more than I should. But you look O.K., I’ll take a chance. . . . You really a stranger around here?”

  “That’s on the level. I’ve been in Africa studying tropical diseases. The little I’ve seen of Immob makes me sick to my stomach.”

  “All right. Here’s the picture. . . .”