Her face was unmarred. She tried to be friendly to Mercer.
He was so shocked by her that he dug himself into the soft dry crumbly earth and stayed there for what seemed like a hundred years. He found later that it was less than a full day.
When he came out, the long many-bodied girl was waiting for him.
“You didn’t have to come out just for me,” said she.
Mercer shook the dirt off himself.
He looked around. The violet sun was going down, and the sky was streaked with blues, deeper blues, and trails of orange sunset.
He looked back at her.
“I didn’t get up for you. It’s no use lying there, waiting for the next time.”
“I want to show you something,” she said. She pointed to a low hummock.
“Dig that up.”
Mercer looked at her. She seemed friendly. He shrugged and attacked the soil with his powerful claws. With tough skin and heavy digging-nails on the ends of his fingers, he found it was easy to dig like a dog. The earth cascaded beneath his busy hands. Something pink appeared down in the hole he had dug. He proceeded more carefully.
He knew what it would be.
It was. It was a man, sleeping. Extra arms grew down one side of his body in an orderly series. The other side looked normal.
Mercer turned back to the many-bodied girl, who had writhed closer.
“That’s what I think it is, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Doctor Vomact burned his brain out for him.
And took his eyes out, too.”
Mercer sat back on the ground and looked at the girl.
“You told me to do it. Now tell me what for.”
“To let you see. To let you know. To let you think.”
“That’s all?” said Mercer.
The girl twisted with startling suddenness. All the way down her series of bodies, her chests heaved. Mercer wondered how the air got into all of them. He did not feel sorry for her; he did not feel sorry for anyone except himself. When the spasm passed the girl smiled at him apologetically.
“They just gave me a new plant.”
Mercer nodded grimly.
“What now, a hand? It seems you have enough.”
“Oh, those,” she said, looking back at her many torsos.
“I
promised B’dikkat that I’d let them grow. He’s good. But that man, stranger. Look at that man you dug up. Who’s better off, he or we?”
Mercer stared at her.
“Is that what you had me dig him up for?”
“Yes,” said the girl.
“Do you expect me to answer?”
“No,” said the girl, “not now.”
“Who are you?” said Mercer.
“We never ask that here. It doesn’t matter. But since you’re new, I’ll tell you. I used to be the Lady Da the Emperor’s stepmother.”
“You!” he exclaimed.
She smiled, ruefully.
“You’re still so fresh you think it matters! But I have something more important to tell you.” She stopped and bit her lip.
“What?” he urged.
“Better tell me before I get another bite. I won’t be able to think or talk then, not for a long time. Tell me now.”
She brought her face close to his. It was still a lovely face, even in the dying orange of this violet-sunned sunset.
“People never live forever.”
“Yes,” said Mercer.
“I knew that.”
“Believe it,” ordered the Lady Da.
Lights flashed across the dark plain, still in the distance. Said she, “Dig in, dig in for the night. They may miss you.”
Mercer started digging. He glanced over at the man he had dug up. The brainless body, with motions as soft as those of a starfish under water, was pushing its way back into the earth.
Five or seven days later, there was a shouting through the herd.
Mercer had come to know a half-man, the lower part of whose body was gone and whose viscera were kept in place with what resembled a translucent plastic bandage. The half-man had shown him how to lie still when the dromozoa came with their inescapable errands of doing good.
Said the half-man, “You can’t fight them. They made Alvarez as big as a mountain, so that he never stirs. Now they’re trying to make us happy. They feed us and clean us and sweeten us up. Lie still. Don’t worry about screaming. We all do.”
“When do we get the drug?” said Mercer.
“When B’dikkat comes.”
B’dikkat came that day, pushing a sort of wheeled sled ahead of him. The runners carried it over the hillocks; the wheels worked on the surface.
Even before he arrived, the herd sprang into furious action.
Everywhere, people were digging up the sleepers. By the time B’dikkat reached their waiting place, the herd must have uncovered twice their own number of sleeping pink bodies men and women, young and old. The sleepers looked no better and no worse than the waking ones.
“Hurry! “said the Lady Da.
“He never gives any of us a shot until we’re all ready.”
B’dikkat wore his heavy lead suit.
He lifted an arm in friendly greeting, like a father returning home with treats for his children. The herd clustered around him but did not crowd him.
He reached into the sled. There was a harnessed bottle which he threw over his shoulders. He snapped the locks on the straps.
From the bottle there hung a tube. Midway down the tube there was a small pressure-pump. At the end of the tube there was a glistening hypodermic needle.
When ready, B’dikkat gestured for them to come closer. They approached him with radiant happiness. He stepped through their ranks and past them, to the girl who had the boy growing from her neck. His mechanical voice boomed through the loudspeaker set in the top of his suit.
“Good girl. Good, good girl. You get a big, big present.” He thrust the hypodermic into her so long that Mercer could see an air bubble travel from the pump up to the bottle.
Then he moved back to the others, booming a word now and then, moving with improbable grace and speed amid the people.
His needle flashed as he gave them hypodermics under pressure.
The people dropped to sitting positions or lay down on the ground as though half-asleep.
He knew Mercer.
“Hello, fellow. Now you can have the fun.
It would have killed you in the cabin. Do you have anything for me?”
Mercer stammered, not knowing what B’dikkat meant, and the two- nosed man answered for him.
“I think he has a nice baby head, but it isn’t big enough for you to take yet.”
Mercer never noticed the needle touch his arm.
B’dikkat had turned to the next knot of people when the super-condamine hit Mercer.
He tried to run after B’dikkat, to hug the lead space suit, to tell B’dikkat that he loved him. He stumbled and fell, but it did not hurt.
The many-bodied girl lay near him. Mercer spoke to her.
“Isn’t it wonderful? You’re beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
I’m so happy to be here.”
The woman covered with growing hands came and sat beside them. She radiated warmth and good fellowship. Mercer thought that she looked very distinguished and charming. He struggled out of his clothes. It was foolish and snobbish to wear clothing when none of these nice people did.
The two women babbled and crooned at him.
With one corner of his mind he knew that they were saying nothing, just expressing the euphoria of a drug so powerful that the known universe had forbidden it. With most of his mind he was happy. He wondered how anyone could have the good luck to visit a planet as nice as this. He tried to tell the Lady Da, but the words weren’t quite straight.
A painful stab hit him in the abdomen. The drug went after the pain and swallowed it. It was like the cap in the hospital, only a thousand times
better. The pain was gone, though it had been crippling the first time.
He forced himself to be deliberate. He rammed his mind into focus and said to the two ladies who lay pinkly nude beside him in the desert.
“That was a good bite. Maybe I will grow another head. That would make B’dikkat happy!”
The Lady Da forced the foremost of her bodies into an upright position. Said she, “I’m strong, too. I can talk.
Remember, man, remember. People never live forever. We can die, too, we can die like real people. I do so believe in death!”
Mercer smiled at her through his happiness.
“Of course you can. But isn’t this nice . . .”
With this he felt his lips thicken and his mind go slack. He was wide awake, but he did not feel like doing anything. In that beautiful place, among all those companionable and attractive people, he sat and smiled.
B’dikkat was sterilizing his knives.
Mercer wondered how long the super-condamine had lasted him. He endured the ministrations of the dromozoa without screams or movement. The agonies of nerves and itching of skin were phenomena which happened somewhere near him, but meant nothing. He watched his own body with remote, casual interest. The Lady Da and the hand-covered woman stayed near him. After a long time the half-man dragged himself over to the group with his powerful arms. Having arrived, he blinked sleepily and friendlily at them, and lapsed back into the restful stupor from which he had emerged. Mercer saw the sun rise on occasion, closed his eyes briefly, and opened them to see stars shining. Time had no meaning. The dromozoa fed him in their mysterious way; the drug canceled out his needs for cycles of the body.
At last he noticed a return of the inwardness of pain.
The pains themselves had not changed; he had.
He knew all the events which could take place on Shayol. He remembered them well from his happy period. Formerly he had noticed them now he felt them.
He tried to ask the Lady Da how long they had had the drug, and how much longer they would have to wait before they had it again. She smiled at him with benign, remote happiness; apparently her many torsos, stretched out along the ground, had a greater capacity for retaining the drug than did his body. She meant him well, but was in no condition for articulate speech.
The half-man lay on the ground, arteries pulsating prettily behind the half-transparent film which protected his abdominal cavity.
Mercer squeezed the man’s shoulder.
The half-man woke, recognized Mercer, and gave him a healthily sleepy grin.
” “A good morrow to you, my boy.” That’s out of a play. Did you ever see a play?”
“You mean a game with cards?”
“No,” said the half-man, “a son of eye-machine with real people doing the figures.”
“I never saw that,” said Mercer, “but I ” “But you want to ask me when B’dikkat is going to come back with the needle.”
“Yes,” said Mercer, a little ashamed of his obviousness.
“Soon,” said the half-man.
“That’s why I think of plays. We all know what is going to happen. We all know when it is going to happen. We all know what the dummies will do” he gestured at the hummocks in which the decorticated men were cradled “and we all know what the new people will ask. But we never know how long a scene is going to take.”
“What’s a ‘scene’?” asked Mercer.
“Is that the name for the needle?”
The half-man laughed with something close to real humor.
“No, no, no. You’ve got the lovelies on the brain. A scene is just part of a play. I mean we know the order in which things happen, but we have no clocks and nobody cares enough to count days or to make calendars and there’s not much climate here, so none of us know how long anything takes. The pain seems short and the pleasure seems long. I’m inclined to think that they are about two Earth-weeks each.”
Mercer did not know what an
“Earth-week” was, since he had not been a well-read man before his conviction, but he got nothing more from the half-man at that time. The half-man received a dromozootic implant, turned red in the face, shouted senselessly at Mercer, “Take it out, you fool! Take it out of me!”
While Mercer looked on helplessly, the half-man twisted over on his side, his pink dusty back turned to Mercer, and wept hoarsely and quietly to himself.
Mercer himself could not tell how long it was before B’dikkat came back. It might have been several days. It might have been several months.
Once again B’dikkat moved among them like a father; once again they clustered like children. This time B’dikkat smiled pleasantly at the little head which had grown out of Mercer’s thigh a sleeping child’s head, covered with light hair on top and with dainty eyebrows over the resting eyes. Mercer got the blissful needle.
When B’dikkat cut the head from Mercer’s thigh, he felt the knife grinding against the cartilage which held the head to his own body. He saw the child-face grimace as the head was cut; he felt the far, cool flash of unimportant pain, as B’dikkat dabbed the wound with a corrosive antiseptic which stopped all bleeding immediately.
The next time it was two legs growing from his chest.
Then there had been another head beside his own.
Or was that after the torso and legs, waist to toe-tips, of the little girl which had grown from his side?
He forgot the order.
He did not count time.
Lady Da smiled at him often, but there was no love in this place. She had lost the extra torsos. In between teratologies, she was a pretty and shapely woman; but the nicest thing about their relationship was her whisper to him, repeated some thousands of times, repeated with smiles and hope, “People never live forever.”
She found this immensely comforting, even though Mercer did not make much sense out of it.
Thus events occurred, and victims changed in appearance, and new ones arrived. Sometimes B’dikkat took the new ones, resting in the everlasting sleep of their burned-out brains, in a ground-truck to be added to other herds. The bodies in the truck threshed and bawled without human speech when the dromozoa struck them.
Finally, Mercer did manage to follow B’dikkat to the door of the cabin. He had to fight the bliss of super-condamine to do it. Only the memory of previous hurt, bewilderment, and perplexity made him sure that if he did not ask B’dikkat when he, Mercer, was happy, the answer would no longer be available when he needed it. Fighting pleasure itself, he begged B’dikkat to check the records and to tell him how long he had been there.
B’dikkat grudgingly agreed, but he did not come out of the doorway. He spoke through the public address box built into the cabin, and his gigantic voice roared out over the empty plain, so that the pink herd of talking people stirred gently in their happiness and wondered what their friend B’dikkat might be wanting to tell them. When he said it, they thought it exceedingly profound, though none of them understood it, since it was simply the amount of time that Mercer had been on Shayol: “Standard years eighty-four years, seven months, three days, two hours, eleven and one half minutes. Good luck, fellow.”
Mercer turned away.
The secret little corner of his mind, which stayed sane through happiness and pain, made him wonder about B’dikkat.
What persuaded the cow-man to remain on Shayol? What kept him happy without super-condamine? Was B’dikkat a crazy slave to his own duty or was he a man who had hopes of going back to his own planet some day, surrounded by a family of little cow people resembling himself? Mercer, despite his happiness, wept a little at the strange fate of B’dikkat. His own fate he accepted.
He remembered the last time he had eaten actual eggs from an actual pan. The dromozoa kept him alive, but he did not know how they did it.
He staggered back to the group. The Lady Da, naked in the dusty plain, waved a hospitable hand and showed that there was a place for him to sit beside her. There were unclaimed square miles of seating space a
round them, but he appreciated the kindliness of her gesture none the less.
IV
The years, if they were years, went by. The land of Shayol did not change.
Sometimes the bubbling sound of geysers came faintly across the plain to the herd of men; those who could talk declared it to be the breathing of Captain Alvarez. There was night and day, but no setting of crops, no change of season, no generations of men. Time stood still for these people, and their load of pleasure was so commingled with the shocks and pains of the dromozoa that the words of the Lady Da took on very remote meaning.
“People never live forever.”
Her statement was a hope, not a truth in which they could believe. They did not have the wit to follow the stars in their courses, to exchange names with each other, to harvest the experience of each for the wisdom of all. There was no dream of escape for these people. Though they saw the old-style chemical rockets lift up from the field beyond B’dikkat’s cabin, they did not make plans to hide among the frozen crop of transmuted flesh.
Far long ago, some other prisoner than one of these had tried to write a letter. His handwriting was on a rock. Mercer read it, and so had a few of the others, but they could not tell which man had done it. Nor did they care.
The letter, scraped on stone, had been a message home. They could still read the opening: “Once, I was like you, stepping out of my window at the end of day, and letting the winds blow me gently toward the place I lived in. Once, like you, I had one head, two hands, ten fingers on my hands. The front part of my head was called a face, and I could talk with it. Now I can only write, and that only when I get out of pain. Once, like you, I ate foods, drank liquid, had a name. I cannot remember the name I had. You can stand up, you who get this letter. I cannot even stand up. I just wait for the lights to put my food in me molecule by molecule, and to take it out again. Don’t think that I am punished any more.
This place is not a punishment. It is something else.”
Among the pink herd, none of them ever decided what was “something else.”
The Rediscovery of Man Page 36