The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II

by David G. Hartwell

  Her reply was grave, yet it seemed to amuse her. It gave him a little trouble; there were no words for its exact meaning. It was something like “Immortality begins with death.”

  He glanced at her face uneasily. “Are you looking for trouble?”

  “Everything will go smoothly.”

  After all, he thought, she believes she has looked into the future and has seen what will happen.

  “The Nightingale will not fail The Student,” she added with a queer smile. “You’ll get your Red Rose.”

  “You can be plainer than that,” he muttered. “Secrets . . . secrets . . . why all this you’re-too-young-to-know business?”

  But she laughed in his mind, and the enchantment of that laughter took his breath away. Finally he said: “I admit I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you’re about to get involved in anything on my account, forget it. I won’t have it.”

  “Each does the thing that makes him happy. The Student will never be happy until he finds The Rose that will admit him to his Dance. The Nightingale will never be happy until The Student holds her in his arms and thinks her as lovely as a Red Rose. I think we may both get what we want.”

  He growled: “You haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes I have, especially right now. For ten years I’ve urged people not to inhibit their healthy inclinations. At the moment I don’t have any inhibitions at all. It’s a wonderful feeling. I’ve never been so happy, I think. For the first and last time in my life, I’m going to kiss you.”

  Her hand tugged at his sleeve. As he looked down into that enchanted face, he knew that this night was hers, that she was privileged in all things, and that whatever she willed must yield to her.

  They had stopped at the temporarily-erected stage-door. She rose sur les pointes, took his face in her palms, and like a hummingbird drinking her first nectar, kissed him on the mouth.

  A moment later she led him into the dressing-room corridor.

  He stifled a confused impulse to wipe the back of his hand across his lips. “Well . . . well, just remember to take it easy. Don’t try to be spectacular. The artificial wings won’t take it. Canvas stretched on duralite and piano wire calls for adagio. A fast pirouette, and they’re ripped off. Besides, you’re out of practice. Control your enthusiasm in Act I or you’ll collapse in Act II. Now, run on to your dressing room. Cue in five minutes!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  There is a faint, yet distinct anatomical difference in the foot of the man and that of the woman, which keeps him earthbound, while permitting her, after long and arduous training, to soar sur les pointes. Owing to the great and varied beauty of the arabesques open to the ballerina poised on her extended toes, the male danseur at one time existed solely as a shadowy porteur, and was needed only to supply unobtrusive support and assistance in the exquisite enchaînements of the ballerina. Iron muscles in leg and torso are vital in the danseur, who must help maintain the illusion that his whirling partner is made of fairy gossamer, seeking to wing skyward from his restraining arms.

  All this flashed through the incredulous mind of Ruy Jacques as he whirled in a double fouetté and followed from the corner of his eye the grey figure of Anna van Tuyl, as, wings and arms aflutter, she pirouetted in the second enchaînement of Act I, away from him and toward the maître de ballet.

  It was all well enough to give the illusion of flying, of alighting apparently weightless, in his arms – that was what the audience loved. But that it could ever really happen – that was simply impossible. Stage wings – things of grey canvas and duralite frames – couldn’t subtract a hundred pounds from one hundred and twenty.

  And yet . . . it had seemed to him that she had actually flown.

  He tried to pierce her mind – to extract the truth from the bits of metal about her. In a gust of fury he dug at the metal outline of those remarkable wings.

  In the space of seconds his forehead was drenched in cold sweat, and his hands were trembling. Only the fall of the curtain on the first act saved him as he stumbled through his exit entrechat.

  What had Matt Bell said? “To communicate in his new language of music, one may expect our man of the future to develop specialized membranous organs, which, of course, like the tongue, will have dual functional uses, possibly leading to the conquest of time as the tongue has conquered space.”

  Those wings were not wire and metal, but flesh and blood.

  He was so absorbed in his ratiocination that he failed to become aware of an acutely unpleasant metal radiation behind him until it was almost upon him. It was an intricate conglomeration of matter, mostly metal, resting perhaps a dozen feet behind his back, showering the lethal presence of his wife.

  He turned with nonchalant grace to face the first tangible spawn of the Sciomnia formula.

  It was simply a black metal box with a few dials and buttons. The scientist held it lightly in her lap as she sat at the side of the table.

  His eyes passed slowly from it to her face, and he knew that in a matter of minutes Anna van Tuyl – and all Via Rosa beyond her – would be soot floating in the night wind.

  Martha Jacques’ face was sublime with hate. “Sit down,” she said quietly.

  He felt the blood leaving his cheeks. Yet he grinned with a fair show of geniality as he dropped into the chair. “Certainly. I’ve got to kill time somehow until the end of Act I.”

  She pressed a button on the box surface.

  His volition vanished. His muscles were locked, immobile. He could not breathe.

  Just as he was convinced that she planned to suffocate him, her finger made another swift motion toward the box, and he sucked in a great gulp of air. His eyes could move a little, but his larnyx was still paralyzed.

  Then the moments began to pass, endlessly, it seemed to him.

  The table at which they sat was on the right wing of the stage. The woman sat facing into the stage, while his back was to it. She followed the preparations of the troupe for Act II with moody, silent eyes, he with straining ears and metal-empathic sense.

  Only when he heard the curtain sweeping across the street-stage to open the second act did the woman speak.

  “She is beautiful. And so graceful with those piano-wire wings, just as if they were part of her. I don’t wonder she’s the first woman who ever really interested you. Not that you really love her. You’ll never love anyone.

  From the depths of his paralysis he studied the etched bitterness of the face across the table. His lips were parched, and his throat a desert.

  She thrust a sheet of paper at him, and her lip curled. “Are you still looking for that rose? Search no further, my ignorant friend. There it is – Sciomnia, complete, with its nineteen sub-equations.”

  The lines of unreadable symbols dug like nineteen relentless harpoons ever deeper into his twisting, racing mind.

  The woman’s face grimaced in fleeting despair. “Your own wife solves Sciomnia and you condescend to keep her company until you go on again at the end of Act III. I wish I had a sense of humor. All I knew was to paralyze your spinal column. Oh, don’t worry. It’s purely temporary. I just didn’t want you to warn her. And I know what torture it is for you not to be able to talk.” She bent over and turned a knurled knob on the side of the black steel box. “There, at least you can whisper. You’ll be completely free after the weapon fires.”

  His lips moved in a rapid slur. “Let us bargain, Martha. Don’t kill her. I swear never to see her again.”

  She laughed, almost gaily.

  He pressed on. “But you have all you really want. Total fame, total power, total knowledge, the body perfect. What can her death and the destruction of the Via give you?”

  “Everything.”

  “Martha, for the sake of all humanity to come, don’t do this thing! I know something about Anna van Tuyl that perhaps even Bell doesn’t – something she has concealed very adroitly. That girl is the most precious creature on earth!”r />
  “It’s precisely because of that opinion – which I do not necessarily share – that I shall include her in my general destruction of the Via.” Her mouth slashed at him: “Oh, but it’s wonderful to see you squirm. For the first time in your miserable thirty years of life you really want something. You’ve got to crawl down from that ivory tower of indifference and actually plead with me, whom you’ve never even taken the trouble to despise. You and your damned art. Let’s see it save her now!”

  The man closed his eyes and breathed deeply. In one rapid, complex surmise, he visualized an enchaînement of postures, a pas de deux to be played with his wife as an unwitting partner. Like a skilled chess player, he had analyzed various variations of her probable responses to his gambit, and he had every expectation of a successful climax. And therein lay his hesitation, for success meant his own death.

  Yes, he could not eradicate the idea from his mind. Even at this moment he believed himself intrigued more by the novel, if macabre, possibilities inherent in the theme rather than its superficial altruism. While seeming to lead Martha through an artistic approach to the murder of Anna and the Via, he could, in a startling, off key climax, force her to kill him instead. It amused him enormously to think that afterward, she would try to reduce the little comedy to charts and graph paper in an effort to discover how she had been hypnotized.

  It was the first time in his life that he had courted physical injury. The emotional sequence was new, a little heady. He could do it; he need only be careful about his timing.

  After hurling her challenge at him, the woman had again turned morose eyes downstage, and was apparently absorbed in a grudging admiration of the second act. But that couldn’t last long. The curtain on Act II would be her signal.

  And there it was, followed by a muffled roar of applause. He must stall her through most of Act III, and then . . .

  He said quickly: “We still have a couple of minutes before the last act begins, where The Nightingale dies on the thorn. There’s no hurry. You ought to take time to do this thing properly. Even the best assassinations are not purely a matter of science. I’ll wager you never read Dc Quincey’s little essay on murder as a fine art. No? You see, you’re a neophyte, and could do with a few tips from an old hand. You must keep in mind your objects: to destroy both the Via and Anna. But mere killing won’t be enough. You’ve got to make me suffer too. Suppose you shoot Anna when she comes on at the beginning of Act III. Only fair. The difficulty is that Anna and the others will never know what hit them. You don’t give them the opportunity to bow to you as their conqueror.”

  He regarded her animatedly. “You see, can’t you, my dear, that some extraordinarily difficult problems in composition are involved?”

  She glared at him, and seemed about to speak.

  He continued hastily: “Not that I’m trying to dissuade you. You have the basic concept, and despite your lack of experience, I don’t think you’ll find the problem of technique insuperable. Your prelude was rather well done: freezing me in situ, as it were, to state your theme simply and without adornment, followed immediately by variations of dynamic and suggestive portent. The finale is already implicit; yet it is kept at a disciplined arm’s length while the necessary structure is formed to support it and develop its stern message.”

  She listened intently to him, and her eyes were narrow. The expression on her face said: “Talk all you like. This time, you won’t win.”

  Somewhere beyond the flimsy building-board stage wing he heard Dorran’s musicians tuning up for Act III.

  His dark features seemed to grow even more earnest, but his voice contained a perceptible burble. “So you’ve blocked in the introduction and the climax. A beginning and an end. The real problem comes now: how much, and what kind – of a middle? Most beginning murderesses would simply give up in frustrated bafflement. A few would shoot the moment Anna floats into the white rose garden. In my opinion, however, considering the wealth of material inherent in your composition, such abbreviation would be inexcusably primitive and garish – if not actually vulgar.”

  Martha Jacques blinked, as though trying to break through some indescribable spell that was being woven about her. Then she laughed shortly. “Go on. I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Just when should I destroy the Via?”

  The artist sighed. “You see? Your only concern is the result. You completely ignore the manner of its accomplishment. Really, Mart, I should think you’d show more insight into your first attempt at serious art. Now please don’t misunderstand me, dear. I have the warmest regard for your spontaneity and enthusiasm: to be sure, they’re quite indispensable when dealing with hackneyed themes, but headlong eagerness is not a substitute for method, or for art. We must search out and exploit subsidiary themes, intertwine them in subtle counterpoint with the major motifs. The most obvious minor theme is the ballet itself. That ballet is the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen or heard. Nevertheless, you can give it a power, a dimension, that even Anna wouldn’t suspect possible, simply by blending it contrapuntally into your own work. It’s all a matter of firing at the proper instant.” He smiled engagingly. “I see that you’re beginning to appreciate the potentialities of such unwitting collaboration.”

  The woman studied him through heavy-lidded eyes. She said slowly: “You are a great artist – and a loathesome beast.”

  He smiled still more amiably. “Kindly restrict your appraisals to your fields of competence. You haven’t, as yet, sufficient background to evaluate me as an artist. But let us return to your composition. Thematically, it’s rather pleasing. The form, pacing, and orchestration are irreproachable. It is adequate. And its very adequacy condemns it. One detects a certain amount of diffident imitation and over-attention to technique common to artists working in a new medium. The overcautious sparks of genius aren’t setting us aflame. The artist isn’t getting enough of his own personality into the work. And the remedy is as simple as the diagnosis: the artist must penetrate his work, wrap it around him, give it the distilled, unique essence of his heart and mind, so that it will blaze up and reveal his soul even through the veil of unidiomatic technique.”

  He listened a moment to the music outside. “As Anna wrote her musical score, a hiatus of thirty-eight rests precedes the moment The Nightingale drops dying from the thorn. At the start of that silence, you could start to run off your nineteen sub-equations in your little tin box, audio-Fourier style. You might even route the equations into the loudspeaker system, if our gadget is capable of remote control.”

  For a long time she appraised him calculatingly. “I finally think I understand you. You hoped to unnerve me with your savage, overaccentuated satire, and make me change my mind. So you aren’t a beast, and even though I see through you, you’re even a greater artist than I at first imagined.”

  He watched as the woman made a number of adjustments on the control panel of the black box. When she looked up again, her lips were drawn into hard purple ridges.

  She said: “But it would be too great a pity to let such art go to waste, especially when supplied by the author of ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star’. And you will indulge an amateur musician’s vanity if I play my first Fourier composition fortissimo.”

  He answered her smile with a fleeting one of his own. “An artist should never apologize for self-admiration. But watch your cueing. Anna should be clasping the white rose thorn to her breast in thirty seconds, and that will be your signal to fill in the first half of the thirty-eight rest hiatus. Can you see her?”

  The woman did not answer, but he knew that her eyes were following the ballet on the invisible stage and Dorran’s baton, beyond, with fevered intensity.

  The music glided to a halt.

  “Now!” hissed Jacques.

  She flicked a switch on the box.

  They listened, frozen, as the multi-throated public address system blared into life up and down the two miles of the Via Rosa.

  The sound of Sciomnia was chill, metallic, like th
e cruel crackle of ice heard suddenly in the intimate warmth of an enchanted garden, and it seemed to chatter derisively, well aware of the magic that it shattered.

  As it clattered and skirled up its harsh tonal staircase, it seemed to shriek:

  “Fools! Leave this childish nonsense and follow me! I am Science! I AM ALL!”

  And Ruy Jacques, watching the face of the prophetess of the God of Knowledge, was for the first time in his life aware of the possibility of utter defeat.

  As he stared in mounting horror, her eyes rolled slightly upward, as though buoyed by some irresistible inner flame, which the pale translucent cheeks let through.

  But as suddenly as they had come, the nineteen chords were over, and then, as though to accentuate the finality of that mocking manifesto, a ghastly aural afterimage of silence began building up around his world.

  For a near eternity it seemed to him that he and this woman were alone in the world, that, like some wicked witch, she had, through her cacophonic creation, immutably frozen the thousands of invisible watchers beyond the thin walls of the stage wings.

  It was a strange, yet simple thing that broke the appalling silence and restored sanity, confidence, and the will to resist to the man: from somewhere far away, a child whimpered.

  Breathing as deeply as his near paralysis would permit, the artist murmured: “Now, Martha, in a moment I think you will hear why I suggested your Fourier broadcast. I fear Science has been had once mo – ”

  He never finished, and her eyes, which were crystallising into question marks, never fired their barbs.